Through the closed waiting room door, Pastor Zeke’s voice thundered like a jet engine, rising to a shout now to exhort the sinners to repent, glory glory glory. Dwayne imagined he’d be throwing up his arms and shaking his hands like tambourines. There’d be sweat stains under the arms of the suit by now. Pastor Zeke worked hard for his flock.

  Dwayne paced over to look at a faded copy of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. Lazarus looked more like a man with a moonshine hangover than a three-day corpse. Dwayne knew what a three-day corpse looked like, because his Uncle Fisher Stevens had found one floating in the crick back of the house when he was fifteen. Three-days dead in Louisiana water, chewed by turtles and crawfish.

  Awful hot in the church today. Dwayne mopped at the back of his neck with a wadded-up handkerchief; through the closed door he heard the organ break into a wheezing chorus of “Washed In The Blood.” The only other baptismal candidate, little Alton Neames, bounced in his chair like he had to go pee.

  The waiting room door swung open, and Pastor Zeke Clayburn stuck his head in and grinned with white square store-bought teeth, mostly at Missy Collier, who grinned right back.

  “God bless, folks, we’re ready. You ready, Alton? You ready to stand up for Jesus?”

  Alton looked ready to raise his hand for the bath-room, but he hopped off his chair and took Pastor Zeke’s hand. Dwayne stepped aside to let Missy go ahead, and took his place last in line. He followed her swinging white robe up three red-carpeted steps to the baptismal tank.

  When he looked out into the church, Dwayne went weak. He’d never figured it would happen, but he was scared, scared to death to be standing up in front of all these folks. He knew ’em all—heck, he’d grown up with most of ’em—but suddenly they were a bunch of faces, and not very friendly faces, at that.

  Pastor Zeke seemed to be about seven feet tall when he stripped off his powder blue suit coat and tie. He took a white handerkchief out of his pocket, kicked off his shoes, and stepped down in the baptismal tank, right down in the water up to his waist. His hair looked old-testament white, his eyes blue as swords. He gestured to little Alton to join him in the tank, and while the organ continued to play another chorus or two, Alton shook his head and hopped from one foot to another until Pastor Zeke managed to get him to take the first step, then one more.

  “Glory Hallelujah!” Pastor Zeke boomed, and the congregation all shouted it back at him. Dwayne wished he had someplace to sit down where people wouldn’t be staring at him. “Lord bless you, son, are you ready to accept the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart as your personal savior?”

  Alton said something that not even Dwayne could hear, but it must have been the right answer, because Pastor Zeke crossed the boy’s arms over his chest, put the handkerchief over his face and dunked him backward into the water, quick as you please, held him there for a second, then brought him up sputtering and blinking.

  “Brothers and sisters, welcome Brother Alton into the body of Christ and this congregation!” Pastor Zeke said, and the folks in the auditorium sitting on velvet cushions on wooden pews all clapped and said “Praise Jesus!” Little Alton was allowed to escape wet and dripping off to the side, where Zeke’s wife Sister Amalie was waiting with a towel.

  No telling if Alton had peed in the water. No telling.

  Missy Collier went right in like she was at the neighborhood swimming pool. Her robe ballooned up around her and made her look like the five-hundred-pound lady at the carnival, but she tugged it right down and said, “Yes Pastor,” when he asked her about making Jesus her personal savior. And there she went, under the water, all that careful hair curling and makeup gone for nothing. She came up sputtering, too, mascara streaming down her cheeks, hair stringy over her face. Dwayne barely even noticed that he could see the outline of her lacy bra through the wet robe, because she was squishing off to the side where Amalie was waiting with a fresh towel, and now it was his turn. Everybody was watching him, and Pastor Zeke was waving his hand.

  Zeke was working hard at it, all right. There was sweat dripping down his face, and his skin was blushing red at his collar and up over his face. Working on a heart attack, Dwayne thought. Lord, maybe he’ll have one before I have to do this.

  He’d been saved some sixteen times in the last twelve years, and every time he’d taken off the robe in the waiting room. Never gotten close enough to see the murky water in the baptismal tank, the dark shadows in the corners, Pastor Zeke’s waiting open hands.

  Dwayne froze on the first step down into the cold water. I’ll drown, he thought. I’ll drown and float. I’ll drown and float.

  No, no, this was holy. Nobody drowned at the baptism, that was plain stupid.

  Everybody was staring. At the organ, Ginger Lee Olmstead was doing a key change into “Shall We Gather At The River,” and Dwayne knew he had to either strip off his robe and run, or take those last two steps down into the water.

  Pastor Zeke’s smile looked like it was hurting him.

  “Come on, brother,” he coaxed. He sounded like he was short of breath. Oh, Lord, Pastor Zeke was going to pop a vein if he didn’t do it this time, he’d throw him right out of the church with his Momma and brother and Uncle Fisher all watching.

  Dwayne took one step down into the water. The cold stroked his thighs.

  “That’s it,” Pastor Zeke said. “One more.”

  He closed his eyes and took the step. The water gurgled up under his robe, closed over him like a clammy fist. He felt Pastor Zeke folding his arms over his chest and thought I knew it, I’m going to die, I’m going to die right here, right now, and not even baptized.

  “Dwayne Elias Elliot, do you accept the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart as your personal savior?” Pastor Zeke shouted. His hands felt hot as fire on Dwayne’s shoulders, ready to shove him down—

  No! Dwayne thought. “Yes,” he whispered. Something cold and wet settled over his mouth and nose. He sucked in a mouthful of cold cotton. The handkerchief.

  Even though he was ready for it, the pull took him by surprise and he couldn’t keep his balance; water swarmed over him, flooded up his nose and into his mouth. He opened his eyes and flailed against the hands that held him down. Roaring in his ears, shouting, screaming. He thrashed.

  The hands let him go. He didn’t go up. He went down, away from the light, the air. His thrashing sent the handkerchief floating away, and he banged off the side of the glass tank. Green mold in the corner. He needed to breathe, needed to, had to.

  He closed his eyes and saw it again, that face, gray, bloated, the eyes gone, the skin ragged and chewed up, pale muscle poking out, a grin of white bone on the cheek—

  His eyes flew open. There was a light up above him. A bright light. An orange light. If he could just get to that light he’d live, he’d live—

  He found the bottom of the tank and pushed up. More roaring in his ears. The congregation? Screaming like it was a hometown football game?

  He burst up out of the water, choking, gagging, and for a second he couldn’t see because of the water in his eyes. Reverend Zeke was bright, so bright—

  Pastor Zeke was on fire. Lord have mercy, Dwayne thought in dumb amazement, tongues of fire, just like at the Pentecost. No wonder people were screaming, they were screaming in tongues—

  The flames of the Holy Spirit weren’t supposed to hurt, though. Weren’t supposed to turn skin black and crispy. The pastor flailed desperately from side to side, slapping at his chest. His mouth was wide open and he was making a hiss like a snake, like a demon. His eyes were red and bloody.

  Over the screams Dwayne heard the fat on the pastor’s body sizzle and pop like bacon in a pan.

  Dwayne finally grabbed Pastor Zeke by his Sansabelt slacks and dunked him backward into the water. Steam and bubbles stung his eyes, and a terrible smell, sulphur and hell and burning flesh and the swampy stink of drowned men and still water. He lunged out of the tank and laid full length on the red carpet, praying as fast as he could think of the words. Some of the deacons rushed over him, and he heard the wet thump of Pastor Zeke being laid down next to him.

  He turned his head and saw Zeke gasp his last breath. The carpet was wet and sandpaper-rough against his cheek.

  Dwayne had to wonder whether or not he’d really been baptized at all, or whether he’d have to go in there again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Velvet

  When Velvet rounded the corner, she saw Lenny Bradshaw huddled in the doorway of Fong’s Deli, shifting miserably from one foot to the other while he blew on his white fingers. The cold had put little pink roses in his cheeks. He looked like an ad for L.L. Bean in his ski sweater and khaki coat and Docker pants. Hiking boots, too. Christ, he looked ready for the Vermont woods, not downtown Dallas.

  “Forget your gloves?” she asked sweetly. He glanced at her, away, and then at her again as his eyes widened. She adjusted her brassy red wig—six bucks at the local Salvation Army store—and skated her dark wraparound shades down her nose to let him recognize her.

  “My god, what happened to you?” he asked. She’d tried covering the bruises up with Robby’s limited supply of makeup, but Cover Girl standard issue just wasn’t cutting the mustard.

  “Your mom punched me out.”

  “Very funny.” He kept staring at her, fascinated. “Uh, the deli’s not open yet. It’s too early.”

  “No shit, Sherlock, they teach you that in reporter school? We’re going down the block. Someplace quiet.”

  He didn’t look especially happy about it, but he fell in next to her. His hiking boots made thick slapping sounds; they made Velvet’s steps in Robby’s too-large tennis shoes sound dainty. Don’t dance with this guy, she reminded herself. And if you fuck him, make him take his shoes off.

  A yellow DART bus chuffed by in a blast of warmth and diesel smoke; the driver had a glazed robotic gleam in his eyes. Overhead, the clouds clotted gray and ugly. The day had a metallic taste to it that clung to her tongue like fuzz. She swallowed and wished for breakfast. Coffee. Pastries that melted in her mouth. Sugar to jump-start the day.

  Maybe a Baby Ruth.

  “You said you had something?” Bradshaw prodded as he scuffled along. She turned the collar on her coat up to keep her ears warm against the wind.

  “Yeah, well, don’t worry, they have treatments for it.” She glanced over at his choirboy face and saw him frowning as he tried to work it out. “Never mind. Yeah, I got something. Something hot. You’ll love it.”

  “Well, tell me.”

  “Not so fast. Cash.”

  He tried to flash a roll but almost dropped it, She told him to keep it in his pants and took him around the corner. They went down a twisting flight of marble stairs in the shadow of a fifty-story high rise whose contractor must have had a brother-in-law in the marble business. At the bottom was a shopping mall, glass and aluminum with indoor-outdoor carpet with CLOSED signs in the windows, and some wrought-iron chairs and tables for fine outdoor dining. She parked herself in one of the chairs and gestured him to another one. He perched like a granny in a whorehouse.

  “How’d you get the black eye?” Lenny asked. He sounded almost concerned.

  “Do you want the stuff, or not?”

  “I can’t pay you more than three hundred. Orders.” Lenny looked devastated. “My editor kicked my butt over the last time.”

  “My heart bleeds. Three hundred’ll do it. This time.”

  She reached for the bills he passed over and slid them in under her blouse. Lenny took out his little Nancy Drew notebook and looked eager.

  “Yeah, like I told you on the phone, my guy, Burt, he wasn’t the first one.”

  “First one?” He was looking confused. “Well, I know you’re a professional—”

  “Asshole, I mean the first one to flame out, get it? There was some guy who was a fence or something, burned up in his apartment less than a year ago.”

  “Ah. Great. Name?”

  She shrugged. Lenny bit his lip. He had small teeth that looked like he didn’t use them much.

  “You don’t know his name?”

  “Well, excuse the hell out of me, I didn’t have time to do your job for you, newsboy. He died the same way as Burt, laying on the floor black as a Cajun steak. Another one of those darn ‘smoking accidents.’”

  Lenny looked a lot less than impressed. In fact, he tapped his pencil eraser on the table and stared at her, waiting. She scowled back.

  “Like I said, the wiseguys did it,” she finally said. He brightened.

  “Wow! Really? The mob?”

  “The mob,” she echoed mockingly. “You sound like a bad fifties movie. People are freaked on the street, Lenny, really. This friend of mine, she wouldn’t even tell me much about it, except she saw this guy bubbling on the linoleum. It’s the wiseguys, all right. People are scared shitless.”

  “Damn,” Lenny breathed. He scribbled furiously, tongue working in his cheek. “I’ll get right over to the News and see what they’ve got in the files. Maybe make a couple of calls to some police friends. Great. This is great. Mafia torches rivals. Great.”

  “Yeah, great.” Velvet had already lost interest. The three hundred was warming up in her shirt, getting hot enough to spend. She needed some decent makeup, a good thick breakfast steak, a really fine piece of French Silk Chocolate Pie. Then she’d decide what to do next.

  “Uh, I’ll need your friend’s name. For the records, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Velvet nodded absently. “Robby MacReady. Hey, what is today?”

  “Today?” Lenny sounded more mystified than usual. He tapped his pencil on his lips. “Friday.”

  Friday. Something about Friday. Something—

  “Friday,” she said out loud, sitting up straight. Lenny stopped writing and looked up at her warily, like it was “Jeopardy” and he didn’t know the question. “Jesus, isn’t Burt Marshall’s funeral today?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Two o’clock.” He continued to look mystified as she dug in the pockets of her coat, came up with three colored condoms, a stick of Cinnaburst gum, two pennies, and a nickel.

  “Quarter,” she demanded. He dug in his pants and found one. “Great. I’ll owe you.”

  She left him still asking questions, and hobbled up the steps as fast as her aching ribs would let her move. Damn, they’d seemed a lot shorter going down. Once she’d made it to the top, she stopped and pressed a hand against her side before starting across the big marble wasteland in front of the building. Some idiot had left the fountains turned on, and a spray of ice-cold water lashed across her bruised face. The pain would have made her sick if she’d had any food to be sick with and, always perverse, her stomach rumbled.

  The rotunda in front of the building was thick expensive-looking glass. It looked kind of like a greenhouse, growing more marble. She pushed through two sets of revolving doors and entered a lobby with—surprise—more marble, and a big engraved metal sign that said SECURITY and pointed a discreet but urgent arrow left.

  She went right.

  She got about fifty feet before a guy in a blue polyester blazer and tan pants fell in beside her, looking pleasant except around the eyes. He had a cheap-looking gold badge pinned on his jacket. There was a bulge under his jacket that she hoped was a paper-back book, but he didn’t look like much of a reader.

  “Help you, miss?” he asked. She shot him a quick cold look like she’d seen Ming do.

  “Phone,” she demanded. “Quickly, please.”

  “Are you visiting a tenant?” he asked. It didn’t sound quite so pleasant. Damn.

  “No, I’m just looking for a telephone, dear.” She tried a smile. “Please.”

  He put out an arm to stop her. Just as well, she was heading for another dead-end marble wall; the place was decorated in Early Crypt.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, there are no public telephones here. If you don’t mind—”

  At the end of the wall was a discreet little alcove that didn’t have a saint’s statue in it, or a vase full of dead flowers; the gold letters above it said TELEPHONE. Velvet smiled with all her teeth at the security guy, who didn’t smile back.

  “Oh, thank you so much for your kindness, I see it right there. Thanks. Won’t be a minute¡” She darted around him and crossed to the alcove. When she looked back he was waiting, staring, ready to mow her down if she tried to pry a piece of marble off the wall or something. She stepped into the alcove and above her a spotlight came on, lighting up the phone. She fed it a quarter and dialed.

  “Hello?” Robby sounded dead asleep. Velvet checked her watch. God, it was—almost seven o’clock. Didn’t the woman ever get up?

  “Hey, Robby, glad I caught you. Remember how you said to ask if I needed anything?”

  Wet smacking sounds on the other end of the phone. Robby was tasting her morning breath, probably squinting at the clock and trying to figure out what century it was.

  “Yeah,” she said fuzzily. “Who is this?”

  “Velvet. Listen. Want to go to a funeral?”

  The church was as hot as hell’s oven, and Velvet was sweating all over her borrowed clothes. She’d found Robby’s only bright-colored blouse—mustard gold—and the most colorful of her skirts—rust—but the shoes were a disaster. They looked like penny loafers. Velvet stared down at them in resentment while the prayer droned on above her head.

  “—And we thank you, O Lord, for your blessings and kindness in this, our hour of loss—”

  God hadn’t gone out of his way for Burt, that was for damn sure. She shot a sideways look at Robby, who had her head bowed, too. Robby looked dazed with boredom. Well, how should she have looked? She hadn’t been there. She hadn’t seen him.