“That … you have a feeling for these things?”

Nautilus pretended to lick his thumb and pressed it toward the preacher. “You get a gold star on the forehead, Pastor Owsley. And yes, I’ll take care of you.”

Owsley’s thousand-watt smile returned to his face. He put his hand on Nautilus’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Hallelujah, Mr Nautilus, you are surely a gift from God.”

Nautilus had no response to his sudden beatific status. He simply nodded and pictured himself as glowing.

“I have to fly to a crucial – and very hush-hush meeting in Key West tomorrow morning,” Owsley continued. “I can then depend on you to be with me, Mr Nautilus?”

He needs me, Nautilus thought, recalibrating the employer–employee relationship; the weight had just shifted. He crossed his legs, picked up the Edmund Fitzgerald and slowly finished the bottle, nodding at Owsley as he set the empty back on the table.

“Depend away, Pastor.”

25

The six-hundred-dollar Ferragamo slings of Sissy Carol Sparks clicked the Miami Beach sidewalk like castanets. A pair of middle-aged businessmen turned to watch the leg show, Sparks’s skirt inches above the compact knees and rippling seductively in the light breeze smelling of salt water, a Victoria’s Secret bag in her hand. She watched the businessmen watching her through her outsize Raybans, noting the name tags on the lapels of their suitcoats.

Hello, my name is …

Conventioneers. Money on the hoof.

The sun was hidden behind the tall downtown buildings, falling in the west and turning the twilight sky into a glowing blue promise of a gentle night ahead. Sissy walked to Lincoln, crossed to Meridian and headed south, entering a street-level bar in an upscale hotel. Taxis swept past.

Sissy went to the bar and sat, feeling the eyes. Two-thirds of the tables were filled, mostly men, mostly smiling or laughing. Getting hammered in Miami Beach, beautiful women on every corner, Mama and the kiddies back home in East Backwater.

The thirtyish, Hispanic barkeeper had a napkin and a soda water and lime in front of Sissy within ten seconds. He gave her a wink. She smiled back and nodded to the full tables.

“My, aren’t we busy tonight, Julio.”

“A car dealer convention in town, Sis. Not the chumps on the floor, the owners. But you know that, right?”

All Sissy had to do was check the Miami Beach Convention Center’s website to see conventions due in town. To see if it was her type of clientele: men away from home with money to spend.

“Thursday through Sunday,” Sparks said. “The business news expected over eight hundred dealers in town, a biggie.”

Sissy Sparks worked under the name Cecily Silk and charged eight hundred dollars a session. Six minutes or six hours, it was eight hundred bills. The average gig ran five hours and fifteen minutes. Fifty went to Julio if he set the job up, and another fifty went to whoever was handling hotel security that night. That left seven. Twenty went for a new black silk thong, since she threw the old ones away, not wanting to wear clothing that one of her clients had removed – either with hands or often with teeth – or held his slop.

That was disgusting. Washing them out would be worse.

Another twenty gone. Then there was cab-fare from her Wynwood digs to downtown, thirty round-trip, tip included. Manicures, pedicure, tanning and incidentals … another hundred a week.

So five bills a gig times the seven gigs she worked weekly, averaged over the last seven months. Thirty-five hundred a week, a bit under two hundred grand a year. Not bad for a twenty-five-year-old woman from rural Ohio. And it would only get better as she developed repeat clientele and didn’t have to rely on the Julios of the world or her miserably expensive escort service.

“You got eyes on you, babe,” Julio whispered. “One guy looks like he’s about to wet his undies. You want to take a walk?”

Sissy set the half-finished drink on the bar and headed to the restroom. Hopefully one of the dealers was now talking to Julio.

“The lady at the bar … is she …?”

“If you leave me your room number, sir, I can have her visit, if that is all right with you.”

It would be, and if lucky, Julio might score another fifty. Sissy gave it ten minutes. Her phone rang, Julio.

“He’s a guest here. Room four-twenty-seven. The guy’s a bit tipsy, but has diamonds in his cuff links and five hundred bucks on his feet. I saw him pull his wedding ring before he talked to me.”

“Isn’t that sweet,” Sissy said. “I think I’m in love.”

26

Nautilus had Owsley at the airport by seven and they were in the air ten minutes later. The rental Towne Car was ready in Key West and Nautilus drove a pensive Richard Owsley across the island.

“It’s a house behind the Schrum home,” Owsley said, consulting directions on his smartphone. “We’re to pull into the drive.”

Nautilus swerved into the wide driveway as a gray-haired and bespectacled man exited the house waving. On his heels was a large man, Nautilus gauging his height at over six and a half feet.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be, Mr Nautilus,” Owsley said, opening the door.

“I’ll keep the meter running.”

Introductions and handshaking over, the trio crossed the yards to the Schrum residence. Nautilus stepped to the sidewalk, walking around to the end of the block where the Schrum house was located.

Several hundred people were out front, some milling and holding signs proclaiming their love for the ailing minister, others singing, or on their knees at the curb, praying behind lit candles. A wild-haired guy was dragging a six-foot wooden cross down the center of the street. Police cruisers were parked at both ends of the block, allowing residents entry. Two news vans were on site, uplink antennae raised like diabolical engines. The porch of the corner house was occupied by a dozen laughing folks wearing colorful garb and funny hats, drinking Bloody Marys and applauding when one of the choirs finished a song.

Nautilus sighed … Key West.

He turned away and walked another two blocks, finding a corner store where he purchased a newspaper and headed back to the car.

Richard Owsley paused at the door and smoothed the front of his dark suit, straightened his tie. He took a deep breath and shot a look at the man beside him.

“It’s all right, Pastor Owsley,” Hayes Johnson said, patting the youthful pastor on his back. “He’s expecting you.”

“Yes,” Uttleman parroted. “He’s delighted you’re here.”

The doctor ushered Owsley into Schrum’s room, the fabled preacher propped up in a king-size bed, robed as black as a Supreme Court justice, the crest of white hair rising from his head like a halo. Owsley’s feet malfunctioned until Uttleman’s nudge propelled him forward.

“It’s a blessing to meet you, Reverend,” Owsley said, his voice cracking.

“You too, son,” Schrum said. They clasped hands. Schrum nodded to the bedside chair. “Take a load off.”

Owsley sat. “You’ve been my life-long inspiration, Reverend Schrum. I remember the first time I saw you live, it was at a revival in Tuscaloosa and I was just ten years old and my mama had taken the family to—”

Schrum’s hand raised. “Hold on, son, you’re talking like you got to get it all out before I die on you …” Schrum sputtered and coughed. “But I ain’t plannin’ to go out this morning. Fact is, I’m feeling pretty feisty, given all the trouble my body’s been dealin’ me.”

“Wonderful news. Praise God.”

“Now don’t get me wrong, Pastor. I ain’t outta the woods. I’m still weaker’n an hour-old kitten, and likely to stay this way for another two–three weeks.” He paused, seemed to catch his breath. “If I make it, that is …”

In the corner of the room, Uttleman started to roll his eyes. Schrum saw, shot a hard glance past Owsley. Uttleman looked away.