Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

Deshane sniffed. "If you say so, ma'am."

"Oh, I do," said Baby, stretching out her feet as the wind blew through her hair. She wiggled her toes. "I most definitely say so."

"Have you been with Pastor Crews long?" asked the Old One.

"Just a couple months, sir," said Deshane. "The rest of the boys…they been with him lots longer."

"They End-Times Army?" said the Old One.

"I'm not really supposed to talk about that, sir," said Deshane. He slowly guided the Cadillac up the winding drive toward the main house.

Baby could hear music through the open window, getting louder as they approached the house, one of those ticky-tacky fake mansions that new money bought, with plaster columns out front and a high peaked roof-Hollywood Southern Gothic, the Colonel had called it once, disgusted. The mansion might have started out white but it needed a fresh coat of paint and half the front windows were broken.

Deshane pulled up in front, parked behind four other vehicles. He hopped out, opened the door for Baby, then ran around and let the Old One out. Started up the steep steps toward the door. "I'll leave you in the foyer and go see if Pastor Crews will see you now." He cleared his throat, looked around. "Probably best if you don't converse with the deacons. They…they can be a little prickly with strangers."

Gravenholtz kicked open the front door, knocked it half off its hinges.

Baby took the Old One's hand, the two of them strolling past the startled Deshane as though they were going to a cotillion.

The deacons in the living room looked up at Baby, snaggletoothed louts with matted hair, black suits wrinkled. She didn't recognize any of them from the prayer service. They sprawled on couches that leaked stuffing, whiskey bottles in their hands. All of them were armed, pistols in their belts, rifles leaning against the walls. The room stank of dirt and tobacco, a sour, run-down odor like that of an old outhouse.

"I'll take it from here, Deshane, you scat now," said one of the deacons as he stood up, a hulking mountain man with a full gut and intelligent eyes.

"Y-yes, sir." Deshane backed away. He looked like he wanted to say something to Baby.

"Crews said company was coming, and I guess you're it." The mountain man glanced at Gravenholtz, then eyed Baby, taking his time. "My name is C.P."

"I'm Baby and these two gentlemen-"

"I don't give a shit about them," said C.P. A black dog rose from a pile of trash in the corner and padded closer, a huge mongrel with yellow eyes and a scarred muzzle. It growled at the Old One and C.P. kicked it, the dog skulking back to the corner. He snatched a mason jar from the lap of a man sleeping in a recliner. Offered it to Baby. "You want a pop? Fresh batch."

"No thanks," said Baby. "Moonshine makes me break out."

The deacon showed broken teeth. "No problem, sweetcheeks. I got me some cream I could rub on it."

Gravenholtz knocked C.P. against the wall so hard the plaster cracked. The other deacons jumped up, trained their weapons at Gravenholtz. Lester, God bless him, just stood there, massaging his crotch, daring them to do something, hoping they'd try.

Baby stepped forward, helped C.P. up, blood streaming down his scalp. "Just take us to Malcolm, before you get yourself in trouble. The rest of you boys go on about your business."

The deacons didn't lower their weapons.

"It's okay, fellas," said C.P., glaring at Gravenholtz. "No harm done. Me and this redheaded cocksucker will discuss the matter later." He wiped blood across his face with the back of his hand. "I'll let Malcolm know his guests done arrived."

"That's very cordial of you." The Old One kicked aside a half-eaten can of beef stew, the can rolling along the carpet, spinning out boiled carrots and mushy potatoes. "Tell him we're enjoying your wit and sparkling conversation, but we have business to attend to."

Baby watched C.P. stagger down the hall. The Colonel would have every one of these men scrubbed raw with pine tar soap and a bristle brush. Then he would have them clean the mansion from top to bottom, clean it so thoroughly that you could run your finger under a windowsill and not get it dirty.

C.P. knocked on the double doors at the end of the hall. Got a response and threw the doors open. He dabbed at his hair, wiped his bloody fingers on his pants. "Them city folks are waiting out here." He turned, beckoned.

Baby, the Old One and Gravenholtz walked down the hall and through the double doors.

Malcolm Crews stood with his back to them, stood facing a roaring fireplace, the room stifling. Thick red velvet curtains hung over the windows. Plush carpet underfoot. Overstuffed chairs and sofas had been pushed to the edges of the room, leaving a large empty space in the center. The walls were covered with Renaissance paintings in curlicue gilt frames, at least a dozen versions of the Madonna and Child. Most of them needed straightening. Whiskey bottles and money lay strewn across a desk that looked like it was built for some French king.

C.P. cleared his throat. "Pastor?"

"Close the door behind you as you leave, C.P.," Crews said gently.

"I can stay if you want," said C.P., one hand on the pistol stuffed into his belt.

"Go on now," said Crews, his back still to them. He waited until C.P. left, then turned. One of the burning logs in the fireplace collapsed in a cloud of sparks, the flames reflected off the walls and ceiling, framing him in fire.

"Well, Malcolm Crews, aren't you just the cutest thing," said Baby.

Crews stared at her, expressionless, his gaunt face crosshatched with wrinkles.

"I'm Albert Mesta," said the Old One, inclining his head.

"Sure you are, buddy," said Crews, hands on his hips. "You don't look anything like your pictures, but I know who you are. I know who all of you are." He nodded at Gravenholtz. "I recognized this fella right off. Hard to hide a face like that."

"What makes you think I'd want to hide it?" growled Gravenholtz.

"Exactly," said Crews. "I say, flaunt the horror show."

"Sit down, Lester," said the Old One, seeing the look on Gravenholtz's face. "Baby and I have business with Mr. Crews."

Gravenholtz sank into one of the overstuffed chairs, the wood creaking under his weight. He tugged at his collar in the heat.

"You've certainly moved up in the world, Mr. Crews," said the Old One. "Last year at this time you were living in a muddy shack, attended by murderous cretins." He spread his hands. "Now look at you. You're living in a run-down mansion, attended by murderous cretins."

Baby laughed first, and the Old One and Crews joined in. Gravenholtz stayed silent.

"Nice suit you got there," Crews said to the Old One. "Little flashy but I like that."

"Indeed." The Old One fingered his checkerboard jacket, eyes lidded. "I'm feeling rather…wild these days."

"The Belt will do that to you." Crews dragged the sofa over, gallantly waited for Baby and the Old One to sit before he set himself down on the arm. "I guess I should thank you, seeing as how you helped me with the president's brat, little Todd…little Turd, that's what I call him." He raised his palm-"Heal!"-tried to strike Baby in the forehead, but she was too quick. "What was that stuff you had me put on my hand, anyway?"

"Contact poison for Janice Rae, contact antidote for you," said Baby.

"Janice Rae? That the first lady's girlfriend? Well, it did the job. Yes, indeedy." Crews looked from the Old One to Baby. "So…why did you do it?"

"Baby thought you might be useful," said the Old One.

"Useful?" Crews threw back his head. "I ain't never been called that before."

"Then no one's ever truly appreciated your gifts," said the Old One.

Crews hardened. "If I wanted to be jacked off, mister, I'd give the job to her."