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The Last Christian
The Last Christian
The Last Christian
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The Last Christian

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Jack Saxby, the last of the blues singers, ekes out a living as an Elvis minister at a Vegas wedding chapel. It's getting to the point where his newest best friend is a three-legged coyote sneaking garbage out of the back of his dumpy trailer. A recovering alcoholic, Jack has trouble staying on the wagon. His ex-wife suggested AA, but those superstitious crutch-leaners? No thanks. The 28th Amendment has declared the country to be one nation under enlightened reason, and Jack's as enlightened as any other patriotic American. Who needs a Higher Power in this age of the Pax Scientifica?

Not to mention the Sound Thinkers, the ultra rationalists, raid all the AA groups they can find.

After Jack is fired, an old lady visits him. Lillian Teatime tells him a wacky story how in each generation there are ten Righteous Ones who keep the world from destruction.

Nine of this generation's Righteous Ones have been killed. Leaving only one. Who is none other than Jack.

The Flashy Tin Man, Lillian warns, is out to get him.

Jack scoffs. For one thing, he's hardly righteous, and for another, she's clearly nuts.

Then Jack has a narrow escape from Bobby Boy Bright, a man with no bottom to his eyes. Maybe Lillian Teatime wasn't entirely crazy, after all. Adding to Jack's woes, the Sound Thinkers want to get their hands on him for their science experiments.

From Vegas to New York to LA, Jack keeps one frantic step ahead of trouble, desperately trying to convince everybody he's not the last remaining Righteous One. Some other poor sucker is. He succeeds, but in a way he never bargained for.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateSep 13, 2015
ISBN9781310870354
The Last Christian
Author

Richard E. Lewis

My parents were American missionaries to Indonesia, where I was born and raised and still live with my family. In 1965, as a nine-year boy living in Bali, I was an eye-witness to the madness that swept over the country and the island after a failed communist coup, during which tens of thousands of innocent people were slaughtered.One rainy day in December, a man I’d never seen before hunched on the parlor sofa in my parent’s house in Klungkung, east Bali. He reeked of fright: acrid, bitter, biting. He was silent, hands clasped between his knees. A former member of a Communist party’s community organization, he was helpless, hopeless, marked for death, a marking that painted not by gray-skinned pallor but by stink. I’ll never forget that smell. My latest book is about that time: BONES OF THE DARK MOON, a contemporary novel exploring the massacres of 1965, a tragedy that is not part of the Bali myth and is unknown to most visitors and even younger Balinese themselves.I grew up reading whatever I could get my hands on. I wrote my first my first short story when I was six-years-old about a yawn that traveled around the world. I also went to the beach a lot and surfed. I attended college in the US and then bailed out of a marine geology PhD program due to technical difficulties with my soul, which did not want to be shackled to a career. I ended back in Bali, writing and surfing (as a writer, I am best known for my YA novel THE KILLING SEA, about the Asian tsunami but I have other great books out there too). I also spend a good deal of my life looking for things, such as my sunglasses, which sometimes are to be found propped up on my head.

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    The Last Christian - Richard E. Lewis

    Chapter 1

    I was cut in half, Lillian Teatime said to her new friend, Barry what's-his-name. I was drowned in tanks and burned alive and shot in the head.

    Beyond the windows of the monorail station the September sun hammered down, Las Vegas ringing like an anvil in the heat. In the near distance on the Strip a demolition crew swarmed through a twenty-story building stripped to concrete bones, drilling holes in the columns for dynamite charges. An electronic sign counted the remaining days to the Big Blow Up, promising the grandest fireworks show Vegas had ever seen.

    That was the Babylon, Lillian said. We were a headline act. The Great Trismegistus, the last of the great stage magicians. I was his assistant. My goodness, each show I died a dozen different ways.

    Barry what's-his-name squinted at the enormous billboard depicting the magnificent swoop of metal and glass replacing the casino. The Topic Science Center and Convention Hall. A banner slogan pronounced that Sound Thinking Leads to Humanity's Progress.

    A science center on the Strip? What's the world coming too? Barry spoke moistly, as if his dentures were loose.

    Exactly, Barry.

    It's Barney.

    Excuse me?

    My name. It's Barney.

    For heaven's sake. And your last name? Are you changing that, too?

    Still Paskowitz.

    A cadence of boots rang on the stairs, and a squad of four Sound Thinkers swung neatly into view. The shoulder patches on their blue blazers indicated they were on patrol out of the North Las Vegas Sound Thinking Station. Their holstered batons swung within easy reach. Not deadly weapons, but nasty enough, telescoping into metal whips, with a taser discharge available at the press of a button.

    The squad leader towered over her juniors with perfect posture, her insignia giving her rank as Senior Colleague. She eyed Lillian, one red-headed woman to another, and Lillian eyed her back. That shade of red had to be dyed.

    The waiting passengers fell silent. The woman who'd been bragging about her blackjack skills sidled behind her partner. A young man casually cupped the silver Scorpio pendant dangling around his neck.

    The Colleague approached him. What's that you have?

    The young man faked a look of startled surprise and glanced down at the pendant. This thing? Just decoration. Don't mean nothing. I'm not superstitious or anything.

    Looks nice. Where did you get it?

    Broadacres flea market.

    The boy was lying through his teeth, which needed a good cleaning. The Colleague wasn't fooled, either, but nodded in a friendly manner. I like browsing there, too.

    Chimes dinged for the approaching train. It swooshed to a stop and the doors slid open. The squad's second-in-command, a portly Junior Colleague, gestured politely at Lillian. Spry young ones first, he said.

    Lillian shot him a glare. She hated to be called spry. Such an insult, as if walking around on her two perfectly good legs and on her own steam was a miracle.

    Where are we going? Barney asked as they sat down. His polo shirt was tucked into plaid walking shorts belted to a round belly. Lillian had shamelessly picked him up at the hotel's brunch buffet. She'd noticed him sneaking grace over his salmon omelet, an old-fashioned habit she found endearing. Brave, too. Sound Thinkers from around the country were arriving early for the Big Blow Up, and half the buffet line was blue blazers.

    As the train lurched forward, she showed Barney the brochure for the Love Me Tender Chapel. There were head shots of various Elvises available for booking, a Black Elvis and Chinese Elvis and Small Person Elvis.

    We're going to see him, she said, pointing to Original Elvis. A noon wedding.

    Original Elvis had a handsome tanned face and blue eyes that drooped instead of smoldered but were close enough.

    Interesting, Barney said.

    Do you believe in God, Barney?

    He stiffened. Why do you ask?

    You were saying grace at breakfast.

    A left-over habit from my wife. She passed five years ago.

    When I die, Lillian said, rummaging in her bag, I don't want anyone saying I passed. It makes me sound like a kidney stone. She brought out a small black Bible.

    Throwing an alarmed glance at the Sound Thinker squad at the front of the car, Barney whispered, Put that away!

    For heaven's sake, it's just a book. Lillian opened to a marked page. The story of Lot and the city of Sodom. God promised Lot he would spare Sodom if there were ten righteous people to be found.

    As I recall, there weren't any, and the city was destroyed.

    Do you think there are ten righteous people in Las Vegas?

    Barney snorted. In Vegas? Don't know about that. Perhaps one.

    Exactly, Lillian murmured.

    At the front of the car, the Junior Colleague whispered to his commander. The Senior Colleague glanced over her shoulder and then strode down the aisle in lithe balance to the car's swaying. Is that a Bible you have, Ma'am?

    Lillian showed her the cover, sealed with a hologram of a Mobius loop, the Humanist League Emblem. The Bible as Literature. An approved and registered edition.

    May I see your registration card?

    Across the aisle, the blackjack lady said, You guys aren't cops. She doesn't have to show you anything.

    Her partner added, We're still a Humanist country, last I checked. One nation, under enlightened reason. We can read whatever we want.

    The Colleague nodded at a young boy sitting by his parents, a Treasure Island pirate hat crammed on his curls. There's a child in here. He shouldn't be exposed to supersitions.

    Lillian asked the father, Does the Bible bother you?

    The man glanced at the Colleague and said uncertainly, I guess as long as you're not reading it out loud.

    Reading what? the boy piped up.

    Never you mind, his mother said, her mouth a thin line.

    Blessed are the children, Lillian said, tucking the Bible into her bag. As the Colleague turned away, Lillian called out after her, May I suggest that wearing those jackets in this heat isn't very sound thinking?

    Don't rile them, for cryin' out loud, Barney said under his voice.

    They're getting too big for their britches.

    They're doing what needs to be done, the mother huffed and at the next stop dragged her husband and son out of the train.

    At the Sahara station, Lillian and Barney transferred to a downtown bus. As they bounced along, Lillian pondered a bulkhead ad placed by the Sound Thinkers. Do you know of an AA meeting in your area? Let us know! All calls strictly confidential and anonymous.

    From the Fremont Street bus stop, the chapel was a short but sweaty walk. Plastic palms landscaped the grungy little building, but it was blessedly air-conditioned. Lillian and Barney settled into a middle pew. The groom, an extraordinarily sculpted young man in black tails and tie, fidgeted up front, scowling at the chapel doors for his late bride.

    The Humanist Celebrant who would officiate the ceremony waited in the wings. She wore a simple cotton dress and sensible shoes that Lillian thoroughly approved of. Draped around her neck was a Celebrant's stole, red silk delicately embroidered along its length with the Humanist Emblem, the Mobius loop representing the essential unity of enlightened humanity in peace and justice. A wonderful concept, and it did seem to be working, but Lillian was deeply, deeply skeptical.

    Original Elvis slouched through the curtains. He was thirty-something, with the beginnings of a paunch. He seemed grumpy. His pompadour wig was askew. On his velour suit a couple rhinestones dangled loose. As he tuned his guitar, a string broke, and he cursed with irritation.

    Lillian's brows dipped in consternation. This rumpled grouch was the one she was looking for? How could anyone believe that the fate of the world rested on those slumped shoulders? She wanted to tell him to stand up straight, for heaven's sake.

    He restrung the guitar and sang into the microphone for a sound check.

    I'm down deep in the dark, and there's no light that I can see

    I'm down deep in the dark, and there's no light that I can see

    Oh please, baby, please shine your light for me.

    Lillian perked up with sharp interest. The song sounded as lonely as a long empty road to nowhere.

    What is that crap? the groom said. That's not Elvis.

    It's the blues.

    "It's depressing. This is a wedding. A Big Hunk o' Love. Sing that."

    The doors burst open, and the bride swayed in, gowned in white satin and adorned with jewels. Real too, Lillian noted. I'm here, sweetie-toots, she beamed, a boozy grin spread across her plump face.

    The groom jumped up. Let's get this over with.

    The Celebrant nodded at Elvis to sing the bride's processional. Instead, Elvis folded his hands on his guitar and said to the bride, Let's see the pre-nup.

    The bride's cheer collapsed into confusion. The pre-nup?

    You're not getting married without a pre-nup.

    What is this? the groom said. We stood two hours at the courthouse for the license, we paid your fee. Now let's get on with this.

    Elvis ignored him. This guy's a professional gold-digger, ma'am. You need a pre-nup.

    The bride grew even more boozily befuddled. But I love him.

    Elvis unstrapped his guitar. No pre-nup, no wedding.

    The groom erupted, flinging himself at Elvis, a clenched fist leading the way. The unity candle toppled off the altar. Elvis's pompadour wig went tumbling and a blue suede shoe fell loose as he back-wheeled away from the blows.

    A stumpy man in a manager's suit rushed out of the office and separated the two. As the bride and the Celebrant tried to calm the groom, the manager said to Elvis, You're fired.

    Elvis marched off, one foot still in its shoe, the other in a sock that needed darning.

    To the couple the manager became unctuous in an instant, silkily saying they'd have another Elvis in the chapel in five minutes. Small Person Elvis, if you don't mind.

    I wouldn't get married in this chapel even if was Elvis risen from the grave, the groom said. I want my money back.

    My money, the bride said. She appeared to be sobering up and having second thoughts.

    The groom stormed up the aisle, hauling the bride with him.

    The manager recovered and oozed a smile at Lillian and Barney. You are the happy couple for one o'clock?

    Lillian nudged Barney. Want to take the plunge?

    Barney stuttered with alarm. Lillian chuckled and patted his arm. Let's go get some lunch. Weddings always make me hungry.

    Chapter 2

    The coyote slunk under the fence and tipped over a garbage can. It was missing its lower right front leg, which it had chewed off to get free from a trap, but that didn't hamper it much. The coyote glanced up at Jack Saxby, otherwise known as Original Elvis, who watched from his trailer's kitchenette.

    Beep-beep, Jack said.

    The coyote held still, its eyes sharp and shiny, then went back to nosing through the garbage. The two of them had come to an understanding, Jack developing a secret admiration for the sly outlaw, and the coyote not giving a damn about Jack.

    The desert mountains burned under the relentless sun. Fighter jets from Nellis Air Force Base wheeled in the big sky, thrilling co-pilot tourists who'd paid good money to drop an obsolete bomb on the range and watch things go boom. Jack wondered how much cooler it was up there. Last week, his air conditioner had rattled up its mechanical ghost. A golf putter propped open the busted window to any bloated breeze, and a rotating fan on the counter stirred up the heat.

    Behind him Christine said, This isn't even two hundred dollars.

    I didn't count, Jack said as he turned.

    His ex-wife perched on the edge of a junked massage chair, a coin feed slot beneath the cracked arm. A cocktail waitress, Christine also played a nun in a Catholic Church reenactment, and even in this heat she was still wearing her gray robes and headdress from today's mass out there in Boulder City, now that the Sound Thinkers had driven the reenactments out of Las Vegas city limits. She loved doing the shows, even if the pay was peanuts.

    On the crate that served as coffee table stood the petty cash box that Jack had boosted from the chapel's office.

    I need six hundred, Christine said.

    What for?

    She wouldn't meet his gaze. Rent. "

    But you got the condo.

    It's too big. I've downsized. Renting it out.

    That's, what, fifteen hundred a month? How can you be short?

    Because Allen doesn't want me working so many hours and because… She flapped a hand. It's complicated.

    Allen Mateo was her boyfriend, an ex-FBI agent who worked a security gig in a downtown casino. He was twice her age and a narcissistic bully. The thick makeup on her face didn't quite hide the edges of a bruise. The hell it's complicated. He's taking the rent and beating you up while he's at it.

    Can you help me or not? Just this once. I really need the money, Jack.

    I could talk to Allen.

    Don't, she said in alarm. It was bad enough last time, you threatening to kill him. You were lucky he didn't kill you.

    That was a six-pack of Heineken talking. I fell off the wagon, okay, but I'm back on and I'll talk to him sober.

    No. N. O. For your own good.

    Jack reached into the bedroom, barely big enough for the mattress on the floor, and plucked his vintage acoustic from its stand. Don't take any less than four grand.

    Her alarm veered into surprise. That's your Gibson. I can't take that.

    I got the Yamaha.

    And that one's priceless.

    Yup, he said, returning her grin. He'd had the cheap Yamaha since eighth grade. He'd taken it with him when he left New York after high school graduation, heading for California and Hollywood and the bright promise of his future. Now the guitar was pretty much all he had left. Take the Gibson. As long as you promise you'll dump Allen.

    She put the money in her handbag and stood with a swish of her robes. I will. I swear. He's no good for me. She kissed him on the cheek and stepped out the front door with the Gibson. Settling her sunglasses in place, she said, You look real down, Jack. Is everything okay?

    Fine, he lied, wondering just how down he looked. For some time now, he'd been feeling strange, not exactly lonely, but definitely alone, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and there was nobody else but him to bear it.

    Well, him and a coyote.

    Getting fired didn't help, but he wasn't worried. He'd get another gig. Talent was always in demand. Not so long ago an inexhaustible supply of immigrants seeking a better life provided a cheap labor pool, but with the global economy on its continual upswing and dictators having gone the way of the dodo, people around the world were staying put. For once in the history of the world, when you looked over the fence, the grass was greener on your side.

    All in all, under the Humanist League, the world was in the best shape it had ever been. The Pax Scientifica some people called it, others the Second Enlightenment.

    No more religions, no more persecutions, not even a single shooting war going on.

    No more blues, either. Who wanted to hear songs about bad luck and trouble?

    Christine drove off with a toot of the horn and a wave. She'd pawn the Gibson, and Allen would get his hands on the money. That was the thing about the world—no matter how much enlightenment there was, there'd always be guys like Allen Mateo.

    Across the sun-dazed street, the Last Lick Saloon held the promise of very cold beers. Scattered in the lot were the usual battered pickups and bad-ass bikes, including Enzo's chopper. There were also some upscale sedans and gentlemen's touring motorcycles, an unusual mix for the seedy joint, but their owners weren't there for the drinks. Enzo's AA group met in a back room, a crafty hideout from the Sound Thinkers. Who'd think of looking for an AA meeting in a bar?

    In the neighboring trailer, Mrs. Nettie shuffled to her screen door, pushing it open with her cane. Jack had promised to change her porch bulb, and he headed over, but she glanced down the lane and beat a hasty retreat, closing the door with a finger to her lips.

    Jack would have beat a hasty retreat himself, but the two Sound Thinkers had already spotted him. They wore the baby-blue blazers and earnest expressions of new recruits on their internship. The guy's sunglasses wrapped around a tidy head, and he looked as buttoned down as his collar, like he was walking around in his own personal air-conditioning. Sweat beaded the girl's hairline. She had no sunglasses and squinted prettily.

    Peace and goodwill, the guy said in formal greeting.

    Yeah, same, Jack said, noting the girl's fine pair of skirted legs, with just the right amounts of straight and curve, like the rest of her.

    She held out a flyer. We're registering voters.

    And where are you guys from? Jack said as he scanned the flyer, extolling the qualities of the Nevada Senatorial candidate for the Rationalist Party, the political arm of the Sound Thinkers.

    Oregon, the girl said. We're got assigned Las Vegas for our internship. We're so lucky. I've even shaken Dr. Topic's hand, isn't that something? I thought I was going to faint.

    Arnold Topic, eminent scientist and chairman of the Topic Foundation, who also just happened to be one of the world's richest men, had founded the Sound Thinkers and remained their moneybags patron. His endorsement photo on the brochure was as large as the candidate's. With his reddish hair and green eyes and sharp nose, he looked like an aging but still handsome leprechaun.

    You just might faint again, wearing that jacket in this heat, Jack said. Why don't you take it off?

    Against regulations, the guy said quickly, as if the girl might be tempted. Now, sir, about the Rationalist Party, don't you want someone in government who can represent your best interests—

    We got the Democrats and the Republicans, Jack interrupted. That's enough for me. Was Madam President a Republican or Democrat? He couldn't remember. Didn't make any difference anyhow. They were all members of the Humanist League and took polite turns being the Commander in Chief.

    They're too soft, the girl said. They refuse to outlaw Alcoholics Anonymous. They aren't doing anything about the religious re-enactments.

    I don't know, Jack said. AA people don't hurt anybody, and as for religious re-enactments, that's just people enjoying themselves.

    We have to completely stamp out the God-thought virus, the guy said. Speaking of which, do you know of any AA meetings around here?

    So you can raid them?

    So we can counsel them to sound thinking, the guy said stiffly.

    Jack was tempted to tell him about the AA meeting across the street. He'd probably charge right over there all by himself, which would be a really dumb idea. Enzo was six-four and three hundred pounds of easily excitable Japanese. Nah, Jack said.

    Those AA fanatics drive down property values, the guy said. You have a meeting in the neighborhood, your house is worth a few grand less.

    Look around you, man. This is a trailer park. Jack winked at the girl as he said that. She blushed, but he could see a little something go sparkly in her eyes. Don't you have any sunglasses? he asked her.

    She made a face. Broke them. I'm such a klutz.

    I got an old pair right here. He gave her the scratched pair of Maui Jims on the plywood shelf. Better than nothing. You can come back later to return them, you want.

    She put them on, a little smile curling to her lips. Thanks. I just might do that.

    The guy gave a terse nod. Thank you for your time, sir. Peace and goodwill to you.

    Jack watched the girl's rear for an appreciative second before shutting the door and opening the fridge. It was struggling to stay cold, its shelves populated by remnants of the four major food groups, fast, finger, fried, and frozen. Front and center was a bottle of Chimay. The Trappist monks who made the Belgian beer were no longer a religious order and had turned into a Humanist charity, but they still brewed a fine drop. Jack kept the bottle there to train his will power.

    He gave it the middle finger. Fuck you, he said.

    In the egg rack was a baggie of hydroponic weed, strong stuff, way beyond the legal THC limit. He rolled a joint, eyeing the slender book paper-weighting a stack of sheet music on the counter. Emma Cordell's Meditations, a first edition from the last of the religious mystics and personally autographed for Jack's mother. A bunch of mystical mumbo-jumbo, but Jack kept the book because it was the only thing of his mother's that he had.

    Sprawled in the massage chair, he opened it to a dog-eared page, exhaling a toke over a highlighted passage:

    Faith in God is the garden of one's soul in which one walks hand in hand with the Creator. But such a personal faith also sustains the entire world. It is said that God would have spared Sodom for the sake of just ten righteous people. But truly, if all that remains is the faith of only one man, or woman, or child, or even that of a lonely alcoholic who lives his days one at a time by humbling himself to the merciful help of a Higher Power, then God will offer to the entire world His sustaining grace and love.

    Jack sang the blues, and the blues and booze were made for each other like clouds and sky. He'd been a heavy drinker, not giving it a second thought until he'd married Christine. She was the one who'd marked the page, suggesting he check out Alcoholics Anonymous. Man, those twelve-steppers? he said. Believing in a Higher Power and all that crap? Christine kept nagging until he finally said, Maybe I drink more than I should sometimes, but I don't need any Higher Power to stop.

    To prove it, he'd joined a Common Sense group, a perfectly respectable Humanist League self-help association for drinkers. A one-step program. Just stop drinking. No superstitious crutches, just your common sense and will power. And he did quit drinking, except by then he and Christine were divorced.

    Jack tossed the book aside and picked up the Yamaha. The frets were sunken, and the whole fretboard needed replacing, but the guitar was as comfortable as the frayed T-shirt on his back and the bare skin on his feet. He closed his eyes and sang, his fingers carving out the notes and bending them around the words.

    Can't take another step, I'm all broke down and cold

    Can't take another step, I'm all broke down and cold

    Please baby find me, I need somebody to hold

    Eyes still closed, he let the notes linger, and startled at a sharp knock. The girl, he thought with pleasure. She'd ditched her partner. She'd be happy to shuck her jacket. He shoved the Meditations underneath the sheet music before opening the door.

    Jack recognized the old lady at once. The senior citizen who'd been in the chapel. Red hair, a god-awful dye job, white roots poking up like bean sprouts. She fanned herself with a map. Her cheeks were wrinkled knobs, her black eyes lively as jumping beans. A large tote bag dangled over her shoulder.

    You are Goose Smoot? she asked.

    It'd been a long time since Jack had heard that name. He'd been born Jonathan Augustus Smoot and in grade school had acquired the nickname of Goose, which was what everybody called him, except for his ever formal father, who always called him Jonathan.

    I was once, he said. Now I'm Jack Saxby.

    As soon as he got to California, he'd legally changed his name. For a musician, Goose Smoot just didn't ring right. Jack was easy, close to Jonathan, but the last name he'd taken off a passing Saxby Furniture truck.

    You're the nephew of Alice Smoot?

    That's me.

    I'm Lillian Teatime. An old friend of Alice's.

    Jack's aunt had lived in Chicago before her series of strokes and death that followed. Well, hey. Welcome. Would you like something to drink?

    Some cognac? I'm getting a headache. It helps.

    I have a beer.

    Beer gives me gas. Water, then? Thank you.

    Please, sit down. Jack plucked a glass from the kitchenette's overhead cabinet, wiped off a peanut butter fingerprint, and filled it with water from the tap.

    She drained the glass. Phew. I was parched. She put the glass on the floor, looking around.

    Home sweet home, Jack said, straddling his spare folding chair. Decorated by the fine firm of Milk Crate and Plywood.

    She eyed the putter. You play golf?

    Used to. In the past, a round of golf was merely the route to the clubhouse bar.

    Silly game.

    I was pretty bad. What can I do for you?

    I'm here for the journals.

    What journals?

    Emma Cordell's journals. The ones Alice gave you for safekeeping.

    Journals? She didn't give me any journals.

    They were in her will.

    I got some money and an upright piano, but that's all.

    Are you sure?

    Of course I'm sure.

    Did you see the will?

    My father was the executor, but he didn't say anything about any journals.

    Stirling Smoot? The philosopher?

    Dear old dad.

    Alice called him a windbag.

    An occupational hazard, Jack agreed. Aunt Alice had never gotten along with Jack's father. Neither had Jack. He hadn't seen his father since he left home, except for Aunt Alice's funeral, and even then they'd barely spoken.

    Could he have them?

    Haven't a clue.

    Could you call him and ask?

    Jack gave her look. Who was this old woman?

    She said brusquely, "Never mind that for now. There's something else. Rather more urgent. Alice said you have a signed copy of Emma Cordell's Meditations."

    What about it?

    May I see it?

    The request made him uncomfortable, but he didn't want to be rude. He dug out the book and handed it over.

    Lillian stroked the cover before opening it. Her eyes lit up. "Oh, my. It's signed. To Rani and little Goose, blessed are the children, and blessed is this child."

    Jack felt compelled to explain. Rani was my mother. Goose was my nickname. Aunt Alice was one of Emma's followers. When Jack was two, his mother temporarily split from his father and, upon Aunt Alice's invitation, had hauled him clear across the country to California and Emma Cordell's Retreat, one of the last religious hideaways.

    You don't have to explain anything, dear. I was there. I remember you and your mother. There's no question now. You're the one. You're the Blessed Child.

    I'm the what?

    Clever of you to hide out in Vegas. It'd be the last place he'd look. Have you shown this book to others?

    A few, Jack said, now totally confused.

    People talk. If I can find you, then he certainly can too. He's on your trail. He's closing in.

    Who is?

    The Flashy Tin Man.

    It occurred to Jack that this lady's strings needed tuning. Ma'am, I have no idea what you're talking about.

    Lillian frowned. Oh, dear. Didn't your aunt tell you about the ten righteous ones?

    Nope.

    From her bag, Lillian withdrew a small black Bible. Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd seen one. Are you religious, Jack?

    Jack was taken aback at the rudeness of the question. Some people had private superstitious beliefs, sure, but you didn't ask and they didn't tell. That's kind of personal, he said.

    Do you know the story of Sodom? Let me read it for you.

    Jack sighed under his breath but found himself listening with growing interest. God had promised Abraham to spare the city of Sodom if there were only ten righteous people to be found. But nope, there weren't any, and so it was fire and brimstone.

    What if there'd been nine righteous people, not ten? Jack said. It'd sure be a bitch to be one of the nine and have a flaming rock fall on your head just because you're minus one guy.

    Lillian smiled. That's what Emma said, although not so crudely. She taught a generation was thirty years, the age of Jesus the Christ when he was baptized. In each generation, there are on earth ten people whom God anoints as righteous in His sight. For untold generations, he has spared the world from destruction, even if only for the sake of just one of them. Before Emma died, the Eternal came to her in a vision and revealed the identities of the ten righteous ones of this present generation, from the Lowly Servant to the Blessed Child.

    Oooh-kay, Jack said.

    "Blessed is this child. She blessed you herself, Jack."

    He nodded, wondering how to ease this crazy lady out of here.

    And in the nearly thirty years since her death, nine of the righteous ones have been killed. One by one. Leaving only you.

    Jack stopped nodding.

    Lillian leaned closer. The Flashy Tin Man is after you. Not only is your life in grave danger, but the fate of the world teeters in the balance.

    Had the last full moon, the so-called supermoon, the closest it had ever spun past earth, tugged this woman's brain loose? Were those white hair roots actually escaping neurons?

    We have to get you to a safe place, she said. The Huxley Society. Yes. They'd be perfect. They have an office in New York.

    The Huxley Society, Jack repeated with a thoughtful nod and then burst into laughter.

    This is no laughing matter, Lillian snapped.

    Jack stifled his guffaws and held up a hand. Okay, for starters, I don't believe in God. I'm not exactly righteous, either. I stole a cash box today. I lie. I cheat. I fornicate. And the whole damn world is gonna blow up if I'm killed? That's just plain nuts.

    "You must believe me."

    Outside, a convertible roared up to the trailer and braked to a sliding stop. The driver leaped over the door and stormed through the door like a tank in a muscle shirt, his eyes redlined on Jack, his nose flared and lips curled in a snarl.

    Allen Mateo was not in a good mood. Jack reared off his folding chair and backpedaled as Allen grabbed him by the throat. What the fuck are you telling Christine, you ass—

    From somewhere close by came an ear-cracking bang, and Allen fell silent, his eyes instantly going blank like a fuse had tripped. His hand slipped from Jack's throat as he collapsed, his jaw thudding on the linoleum floor.

    A hole had appeared behind his right ear. Bright red blood trickled out of the ear canal.

    Jack gaped at the sprawled body and then at Lillian, who was still seated, holding a slender gun in a wrinkled and shaking hand. I was only trying to scare him, she said, her voice as faint as her face was pale. I didn't mean to…is he…?

    Jack knelt to feel Allen's neck for a pulse. He's dead all right, he said. Man oh man, you killed him. You killed him, he repeated, his mind gluing up with shock.

    Lillian took a deep breath, steadying herself. He was going to kill you. Another breath, more resolute. Now do you believe me?

    He isn't any killer! He's a guy I know. Knew. My ex-wife's boyfriend. Maybe he was going to smack me around some, but he wasn't going to kill me. Man oh man, I can't believe this. Jack spun to the sink and heaved.

    Lillian stood. With her face lifted to the ceiling, she intoned, Most Holy and Eternal One, you know all, and all is in your hands. Forgive me. Receive this man's spirit with mercy—

    Lady, Jack blurted, "he is dead. Praying isn't going to help."

    Lillian

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