They’re precious to me, too, thought Demencio. I’ve got to milk ’em for all they’re worth.
When Trish returned he said: “Let’s do the rest.”
“What?”
“Them.” He nodded at the tank.
“How come?”
“More painted cooters, more money. Think of how happy Mister Born Again’ll be.” Demencio cut a glance toward the front window. “Crazy dork can bury himself under the damn things.”
Trish said, “But, honey, there’s only twelve apostles.”
“Who says it’s gotta be just apostles? Go find that Bible. All we need is thirty-three more saint types. Most anybody’ll do—New Testament, Old Testament.”
How could Trish say no? Her husband’s instincts on such matters were invariably sound. As she gathered the brushes and paint bottles, she showed Demencio the front page of The Register, which had been given to her by Joan and Roddy. “Isn’t that the fella went to Miami with JoLayne?”
“Yeah, only he ain’t dead.” With a forefinger, Demencio derisively flicked the newspaper. “When she called up this morning, this Tom guy was with her. Some phone booth down in the Keys.”
“The Keys!”
“Yeah, but don’t go tellin’ the turtle boy. Not yet.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Trish said.
“He finds out his man’s still alive, he might quit prayin’. We don’t want that.”
“No.”
“Or he might stop with them angel voices.”
“Tongues. Speaking in tongues,” Trish corrected.
“Whatever. I won’t lie,” Demencio said. “That crazy dork is good for business.”
“I won’t say a thing. Look here, he’s mentioned in the same article.”
Demencio skimmed the first few paragraphs while he struggled to uncap a bottle of thinner. “You see this? ‘Assistant Deputy Managing Editor of Features and Style.’ Hell kinda job is that? Ha, no wonder he’s rolling in the mud.”
Trish handed him a bouquet of paintbrushes. “What do you think about Holy Cooter T-shirts? And maybe key chains.”
Her husband looked up. “Yeah,” he said, with the first smile of the day.
When Tom Krome got his turn on the pay phone, he called his parents on Long Island to tell them not to believe what they saw in the papers.
“I’m alive.”
“As opposed to what?” his father asked.
Newsday had run the story somewhere other than the sports section, so Krome’s old man had missed it.
Tom gave a sketchy explanation of the arson, instructed his folks on fielding future media inquiries, then called Katie. He was genuinely touched to hear she’d been crying.
“You should see the front page, Tommy!”
“Well, it’s wrong. I’m fine.”
“Thank God,” Katie sniffled. “Arthur also insists you’re dead. He even bought me a diamond solitaire.”
“For the funeral?”
“He thinks I think he had something to do with killing you—which I did think, until now.”
Krome said, “I’m assuming he’s the one who burned down my house.”
“Not personally.”
“You know what I mean. The dead body in the kitchen must have been his law clerk, faithful but careless.”
“Champ Powell. I guess so,” Katie said. “Tom, what’m I going to do? I can’t stand the sight of Arthur but I honestly don’t believe he meant for anyone to get hurt… ”
“Pack a bag and go to your mother’s.”
“And the diamond is beautiful. God knows what it cost. So, see, there’s a part of him that wants to be true—”
“Katie, I gotta go. Please don’t tell anyone you spoke with me, OK? Keep it a secret for now, it’s important.”
“I’m so glad you’re all right. I prayed so hard.”
“Don’t stop now,” Tom Krome said.
It was a bright and breezy fall morning. The sky was cloudless and full of gulls and terns. The marina stirred but didn’t bustle, typical of the dead season between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, when the tourists were still up North. For the locals it was a glorious and special time, despite the wane of revenues. Many charter captains didn’t even bother to go down to the docks, the chance of walk-ons was so remote.
JoLayne Lucks had dozed off in the car. Krome touched her arm and she opened her eyes. Her mouth was sour, her throat scratchy.
“Yekkk,” she said, yawning.
Krome handed her a cup of coffee. “Long night.”