Гарри Алекзандер: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 128, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 781 & 782, September/October 2006

“A godawful mess,” Shea said, stepping warily through the litter, examining the walls. “You said this would be a restoration project, Reverend Arroyo. That was one whopper of an understatement.”

“With faith, all things are possible,” Arroyo said calmly. “Originally, I was going to bring the building up to code and install state-of-the-art electronics to expand my television ministry. Mrs. Ford convinced me that the greater good for the community would be served if we could restore the building to its original condition. She even helped find grant money to pay for it. Truly a blessing.”

“Dynamite might be more of a blessing,” Puck grunted.

“I’ll grant you it looks grim,” Lydia said, “but even amidst all this dreck there’s one thing you don’t see. Do you know what that is, Mr. Shea?”

“Water damage,” Shea said, scanning the ceiling. “There are drip marks below the broken windows where rain blows in, but there aren’t any water stains or bulges in the plaster above, no blotches on the ceiling tiles. That indicates the roof is still intact, and since the walls look true, I’d guess the basic structure is probably sound.”

“Very observant.” She nodded. “In fact, the roof is made of leaded stone tiles and tight as a steel drum. I checked it myself.”

“You checked it?”

“What, you think I’m too old to climb a ladder?”

“No, ma’am, it’s just — never mind. Is the rest of the building like this?”

“Worse. But the only structural problem is below the baptistery. It looks like someone broke the water pipes and simply let them run for a time, undermining part of a bearing wall. Easy to repair. Aside from that, the damage is all cosmetic, trash and smash. But this building’s only half of our project, the other half’s across the parking lot. Anything else you’d like to check out before we go?”

“Not me,” Shea said, “I’ve seen enough.”

“I got a question,” Puck said. “I’ve been a few places, Laos, Vietnam, and the Alpena County fair, but I’ve never seen a church painted black before.”

“The parishioners repainted it to honor their minister,” Arroyo said. “His name was Lucullus Black. He was pastor here from the mid fifties until his death.”

“You mentioned his death was untimely? What happened to him?”

“He was murdered,” Arroyo said calmly. “Shot to death right over there, on that altar. By the Chapel caretaker, in fact, who took his own life after killing his pastor. Quite a scandal at the time. His suicide note claimed Pastor Black was having an affair with his wife. The poor woman discovered the bodies, a just punishment, perhaps. God rest their souls.”

“Amen to that,” Puck said. “On that cheerful note, can we adjourn to the other building?”

Stepping out of the Black Chapel was like surfacing after a deep dive into murky waters. But the relief was temporary. The summer heat was already settling over the city like the lid on a broiler, raising the temperature. And pressure.

Across the parking lot, the ballplayers had stripped off their shirts, baring their muscles and tattoos, hard brown bodies scuffling in the sun glare. Hard brown eyes keeping watch on the white folks, temporarily stopping play as a police car rumbled up behind Arroyo’s limousine.

Two cops climbed out, sliding nightsticks into their gun belts. One white, one black. Big and bigger.

“Good afternoon, folks. Do you have business here?” the white cop asked.

“We’re looking over a remodeling project,” Arroyo said. “Why?”

“Your ride’s a little rich for this neighborhood, is all. In the Chapel district an expensive car usually means a new pusher in town. Or a pimp. Is this project the one the Downtown Development Authority freed up funds for? The same week the Council laid off eight police officers?”

“I think you know the answer to that, Sergeant Boyko.”

“Can’t imagine why they laid you boys off,” Puck said. “Looks like you been doin’ a crackerjack job of protectin’ this here church.”

“It’s just another empty building in a town full of ’em, mister. You’d know that if you lived here. Where are you fellas from, anyway?”

“Up north. Valhalla.”

“Things must be thin if you’re this far south looking for work. No local contractor would even touch this job.”

“Why not?” Shea asked.

“See all that graffiti on the walls?” the black cop said. “It ain’t just for pretty. They’re gang tags, pal. You’re trespassing on turf claimed by at least three crews. The Latin Kings, Bloods, and Johnstone Gangstas. Bloods are the worst. They’re national, connections in Chicago and L.A. They’ve been crowding the other two out. Lot of hijackings, drive-bys.”

“We’re aware it’s a troubled neighborhood,” Arroyo said. “It’s one reason we chose the site. We hope to have a positive impact.”

“A few more cops on the street would have a lot more impact, Reverend,” Boyko said. “And maybe the city could afford more cops if they quit funding boondoggles like this.”

“Sounds like a political problem,” Shea said. “I’m not much on politics, myself. Prefer to tend to my own business. Which I’d like to get back to if it’s all the same to you. Officer.”

“No problem,” Boyko said. “Checking things out is part of our job. But since you’re from out of town, pal, here’s some friendly advice. The Chapel district’s a tough neighborhood and thanks to the city council we’re spread pretty thin. Category-one crimes like armed robbery, drive-bys, and domestic violence get priority so if somebody steals a shovel from your site, our response might not be real prompt. You fellas might want to take precautions. Like nailing things down or locking ’em up real tight. Or better yet, turn your truck around and hightail it for home.”

“These days my home pretty much is the back of a truck,” Puck said. “Don’t worry about us. Up north we’re used to the law being a long ways off. We can deal with our own trouble.”

“Pops, if y’all are dumb enough to take on this job, you’re liable to find out what real trouble is.”

“I know all about trouble, sonny,” Puck said evenly, stepping up to the cop. “It’s what happens when you call people you don’t know names they don’t like. Like ‘Pops,’ for instance.”

“Whoa up,” Shea said, easing between Puck and the sergeant. “No need for any problems. Thanks for the heads-up, guys. Have a nice day, okay?”

“Yeah, go scribble some tickets,” Puck added. “No donut shops around here anyway.”

Shaking their heads, the two policemen climbed back into their prowl car and drove off.

“My, that went well,” Lydia said briskly. “Establishing friendly relations with the local authorities is always a wise move.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Shea said. “Let’s see the other building.”

“The school was built by the Diocese in eighteen ninety-eight, two years after the Chapel,” Lydia explained as they strolled down the tiled hallway, footsteps echoing in the emptiness. “Our plans call for restructuring the classrooms into sixty one- and two-bedroom apartments. Doable, Mr. Shea?”

“I don’t see any obvious problems,” Shea observed, looking around. “The surfaces look true and there are plenty of bearing walls to take the weight. This building is in much better shape than the church.”

“A lot cleaner, too.” Puck noted.

“The city’s been operating it as a jobs center the past four years,” Arroyo said. “Trying to retrain some of the locals, get them off welfare. A lost cause.”

“How so?” Shea asked.

“People in the Chapel district don’t want to work,” Arroyo sniffed. “They’re addictive personalities, hooked on drugs and welfare checks.”