CHAPTER 22

Malcolm Crews was on a tear. Dancing and prancing across the stage, jiggling like some retard stuck his dick in a light socket. Crowd loved it too, ate it up and asked for extra gravy. Made Gravenholtz want to walk down the pew squeezing their heads with both hands, pop their damn stupid noggins like green grapes.

"It's not enough that Aztlan invades our territorial waters in the Gulf and steals our oil," said Crews, his white suit flashing in the stage light, amplified voice booming off the walls of the great hall. "Not enough that they send troops splashing across the Rio Grande to claim our croplands. No, not nearly enough for these heathens." He shook his head in disbelief. "Now…now Aztlan's demanding we turn over Colonel Zachary Smitts to them! Turn over the last of our original warriors, the thorny bloom of the Belt. And for what? Because one of their oil ticks got himself killed in Nueva Florida." He shook his head. "Check the whorehouses and dope dens this oil tick frequented, don't come looking here for the guilty. Stay out of the Belt, Aztlan-adios, muchacho, Aztlan-this is the land of the free, the home of the God fearing, the one true God, you polytheistic cock-suckers!" He put a hand over his mouth in mock shock. "Did he say that? Did Pastor Crews really say that?" Hands on his hips now, face arrogantly thrust forward. "Oh sweet merciful heavens, and pass the biscuits, have I offended you, brothers and sisters?"

The crowd roared their approval, stamping their feet so hard that Gravenholtz thought they might bring the whole place down around their ears. The oil tick. That was a good one. He remembered the beaner oil minister looking at him from the back of the limo, talking about his poor fucked-up kid who needed somebody just as fucked up to hang out with. Gravenholtz had sat there, letting the man talk, trying to decide which one of the sentences qualified as his last words. Are you lonely, Lester? No, Gravenholtz had answered. It had been a lie, but he wanted to make the oil minister work for it. My son has never had anyone to play with…no one who really wanted to play with him. Come live with him, Lester. You could have anything. Anything? Gravenholtz answered, enjoying himself now, knowing what was coming.

"What's so funny, mister?"

Gravenholtz looked up.

A young woman stood there. Pretty girl in a frilly blue dress. White gloves and a gold crucifix bouncing between her little bitty tits. Light brown hair, turning up at the ends.

"Can you scoot over?" she said.

Gravenholtz scooted over, made room on the pew as Crews boomed away onstage in his shiny white suit, thrashing his arms overhead like he was summoning lightning.

She sat down in a rustle of blue fabric that spilled over on his leg. "Scuse me," she said, retrieving her skirt, her hand brushing against him. "You don't mind, do you?"

Gravenholtz shook his head, watching her eyes. Light blue, like her dress and…sweet. No, playful, like she was at a movie show.

She leaned closer, whispered in his ear. "I was going to sit further up, but I heard you laughing to yourself. I like a man who laughs in church. Too many serious folks make me want to run for the exits."

"Yeah…I like a good joke myself." Gravenholtz's throat was so tight he barely recognized his own voice.

"I could tell that right off." She smiled, her teeth white and a little crooked. "They say redheads got a good sense of humor."

A woman in the pew in front of them turned around, started to hush the young woman, but Gravenholtz caught her eye and she turned back around fast.

The young woman stuck her tongue at the woman's back and Gravenholtz laughed.

"There you go again," she said. "Oh my, where are my manners?" She held out her hand, charm bracelet jingling. "I'm Karla Jean Johnson."

Gravenholtz hesitated, placed his hand in hers. "Lester. Lester Gravenholtz."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lester Gravenholtz," Karla said, giving his hand a soft squeeze before letting go.

"My hand's a little sweaty," said Gravenholtz. "Sorry."

"Just shows you're healthy," said Karla.

"Okay."

Karla Jean peered at him. "Gravenholtz? I know that name. You were the Colonel's right-hand man, right? I seen you and him on TV once."

Gravenholtz glanced around. "That was a while ago."

Karla Jean's eyes widened. "You're supposed to be dangerous. Bad to the bone." She fanned herself with a stick fan showing Jesus kneeling beside a white lamb. "Good thing we're in church or I might fear for my safety."

Gravenholtz cleared his throat.

Karla Jean patted his arm, her charm bracelet tinkling. "If Pastor Crews can turn away from Satan, I guess you can too."

Gravenholtz's face was hot. "Yes…if he can, so can I."

"Am I talking too much?"

Gravenholtz shook his head.

Karla Jean looked straight ahead now. "I haven't talked much lately…maybe I'm making up for lost time." She glanced over at him, then back at the stage. "I'm a widow. Almost two years now. Longer than I was married. Figured it was time to get out, be around people again. Said to myself, Karla Jean, wash your face, put on a nice dress…" She turned to him. "You want me to move? If I'm embarrassing you-"

"No. Please, stay."

"Moseby, you're a welcome sight." The Colonel embraced him. "You should have given me more notice, I would have-"

"I didn't get much notice myself," said Moseby, walking beside the Colonel toward the armored jeep.

Moseby had taken the train up from New Orleans, awake most of the way, jostled and bumped as the Charlie Daniels chugged through the Belt on the deteriorating railbed. His wife, Annabelle, had protested his sudden departure, but Sarah had said time was critical. His daughter asked if he was going to meet Leo in Tennessee, acted as if she didn't believe him when he said no. Like he could stop the lovebirds even if he wanted to.

"I've got a vehicle you can take into the hill country tomorrow," said the Colonel. "Rugged beast, get you over and through just about anything. Got a map for you too, best one I could find, but you might want to-"

"Appreciate it, Colonel."

"You sure you don't want me to send a guide along? Got a corporal from that same general area."

"No, thanks."

"This corporal, he's a white man. Some of the hill folks, they never let loose of the old ways."

"I'll get by, sir."

"Of course. Besides, you don't really want company, do you?" The Colonel, a lanky autocrat in his mid-sixties, with long, graying hair to his shoulders, tugged down his gray uniform. Even walking down a country lane, he carried himself as though he were astride a stallion. "You and Rikki have too many secrets, if you ask me."

"My wife says the same thing, sir."

"Oh, I understand the need, it's just not my way." The Colonel drew himself erect. "I prefer things direct and out in the open."

"You would have made a good Fedayeen, sir, but you wouldn't have lasted five minutes in shadow warrior training."

"No…I expect not." The Colonel kept the pace. "Fought a Fedayeen unit once on the Kentucky border. We outnumbered them ten to one, but they fought us to a standstill, then slipped away when we got more reinforcements. Good soldiers." His face was craggy in the moonlight, his thick brows obscuring his eyes. "Long time ago."

"Yes, sir."

"You glad you gave it up, Moseby? The Fedayeen…the life you had?"

"Very glad. I love the Belt, sir."

"Your wife and daughter…they're well?"

"I'm a lucky man."

The Colonel nodded. "Even luckier because you realize it. Some don't. Not until it's too late."

"Your wife…I haven't heard anything, in case you were wondering," said Moseby.

"Thank you for that. I…I didn't want to ask." The Colonel looked off into the woods surrounding them. "You must think I'm foolish."