Stuart Kaminsky - Poor Butterfly

“Nazis been pushed back more than seven hundred miles from El Alamein,” the sweating guy behind the counter said, handing me the Pepsi.

“Montgomery’s a tough fart,” said a burly guy in a plaid shirt at the end of the counter. “Even if he does talk snooty.”

“British all talk that way,” the grill guy said, turning to my sizzling burger.

“No they don’t,” the plaid shirt said. “I work with a guy from London or someplace, and he don’t talk like that.”

“Like it rare or what?” the grill guy asked me.

“Or what,” I answered.

He nodded.

“Know the church down the street?” I asked. “Church of the Enlightened Patriots?”

The plaid guy laughed.

“What about it?” The grill guy stopped to wipe his hands on his apron.

“The guy who runs it,” I said. “He ever come in here?”

“Nah,” said the grill guy, sweeping my burger and onions onto a bun and putting them on a waiting plate. “But I see him coming, going. Looks a little like Robert Taylor, only he got white hair.”

“Another nut church,” the plaid shirt mumbled through a mouthful of burger. “They come. They go. He opened about a year back. Before him was … What, Eddie?”

“Baptists,” said Eddie, putting a toothpick in his mouth. “They was Baptists.”

“Lot of people go to the church?” I asked. “Good burger.”

“Thanks,” said Eddie the grill man through the toothpick. “Not too many. Mostly old people. No Chinese. Chinese don’t go for that stuff.”

I finished my burger, considered ordering another one, but looked down at my gut and decided to be righteous. I dropped a half buck on the counter, pulled out my notebook, and made a note about the expense.

“Take it easy,” said Eddie.

“Only way to take it,” I said, scooping in the change.

I nodded at the plaid shirt, who moved his head a little to acknowledge me, and I was back on the street heading for the church. Something in the window of a store I passed caught my eye. I tried the door. It was open. A young girl was cleaning up, getting ready to close. This was the fringe of downtown, not the heart, and this was the kind of shop men with flat noses didn’t usually visit.

I calmed her down by asking how much something in the window was. She told me and I pulled the cash out of my wallet. She wrapped it and handed it to me with a smile. The second I was out the door, I heard it lock behind me.

I dropped the package on the floor of the front seat of the Crosley, locked the doors again, and headed across the street for the Church of the Enlightened Patriots. A curtain on the first floor of the church moved as I crossed the street, and I caught a glimpse of one of the women who had been picketing in front of the opera-the woman who had left early. As I hit the sidewalk, the curtains parted and a man looked out at me. He was big, lean, and wearing a black suit with a white turn-around collar. His hair was bushy and white, and he smiled a confident smile he made sure I could see.

The door of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots was open before I hit the top wooden step. The Reverend Adam Souvaine stood inside, hands folded in front of him, smooth face beaming at me. His eyes were green and wide, and his white mane of hair looked as if belonged on an older man, or a show horse. Behind him on the wall was an orange cross about the size of Mickey Rooney.

“Mr. Peters,” he said, voice deep and steady. “Welcome to our church.”

His hand was out. I took it. Firm grip. Palm and fingers hard. Behind him I could see into the small entryway.

“Reverend Souvaine,” I answered.

“Please come in,” he said, letting go of my hand.

The door closed behind me. Standing behind it was a man about my height but a hundred pounds heavier. The man’s face was round and dark, black hair combed back. He wore a gray suit with a white turtleneck sweater. He looked like a turtle-hard, cold, slow, and determined. He also looked as if he didn’t like me. I hoped it was the look he greeted all converts with.

“Mr. Ortiz is deacon of our congregation,” Souvaine said, beaming at the medicine ball of a man blocking the door.

“He must give a mean sermon,” I said.

“Mr. Ortiz functions best as collector of tithes, tender of the meager possessions of our church, recruiter for committees and causes. You will not believe it, Mr. Peters, but our Mr. Ortiz has had a number of careers, including that of professional wrestler, and not so long ago was a criminal in his native country. Mr. Ortiz has done some things in his day which God had difficulty forgiving, but Mr. Ortiz’s sincere contrition and genuine repentance have earned him forgiveness.”

A python ready to strike but kept in check by the soothing voice of his trainer, Mr. Ortiz’s expression did not change. At no time in those few moments did I recognize anything on that dark, round, leathery face that resembled repentance or contrition.

“Let’s continue our visit in the sanctuary,” Souvaine said, taking my arm and guiding me out of the small wooden entryway and toward a room to the left. Deacon Ortiz entered the room behind us and closed the door.

The sanctuary was nothing special-an uncluttered desk and chair in the corner away from the windows, a black leather sofa, and two matching chairs with little round black buttons all over them. Jammed but neat book shelves covered the long walls. The wall behind the desk held a large, not very good painting of Jesus Christ, flanked by an equally bad painting of George Washington on the right and a much worse painting of Abraham Lincoln on the left. Below the painting of Christ was a photograph of a sober-looking man with a bushy black mustache and a collar that dug into his double chin.

“Who’s the guy on the bottom?” I asked.

“That,” said Souvaine, looking at the photograph of the uncomfortable man with reverence, “is J. Minor Frank, departed husband of our major benefactor, Mrs. Bertha Frank. This room,” he said, with a wave of his right hand as he sat on the sofa, “is the J. Minor Frank Sanctuary. Please sit down.”

I sat in one of the leather chairs. It squooshed as I sat.

“Is there anything I can get for you before we begin?” Souvaine asked smoothly. “I’ve asked for some lemonade.”

“You can have Mr. Ortiz take a seat or lean against the wall or stand somewhere I can see him,” I said.

Souvaine chuckled, amused by unfounded suspicions.

“Mr. Ortiz,” he said. “Please take a seat at my side.”

Ortiz looked at me as he moved next to Souvaine and sat straight on the edge of the sofa, both feet firmly on the ground.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Now that we are comfortable,” said Souvaine. “I assume you have some questions you would like answered. I will be happy to oblige. In fact, it is my obligation to the church and God to respond to all honest inquiry.”

“How did you know my name?” I asked.

“I suppose you would not believe it if I told you God gave me your name in a vision,” Souvaine said.

“I would not.”

“And you would be correct.” Souvaine laughed, looking at Ortiz. “I’m trying to find Mr. Ortiz’s sense of humor. It is buried deeply by misfortune.”

“Do I get fifty bucks if I make him laugh?”

Souvaine laughed again. “I’m afraid I cannot spend our Lord’s money in such a manner,” he said. “When Mr. Ortiz and God are ready, Mr. Ortiz will laugh.” He looked at Mr. Ortiz with satisfaction. Mr. Ortiz continued to look at me.

“Your automobile,” said Souvaine. “We simply had one of our parishioners who is employed by the local government make a call to the State Automobile License Bureau. We knew your name and the fact that you are a private investigator before you left the Opera building.”