Warren Murphy - Total Recall

Squeezing through the narrow opening, he found himself on a side street. There was no sign of either of the two kids. Cursing, he looked across the street at the buildings, wondering if one or both of the boys could have gone into any one of them. A sign above one of the doorways suddenly caught his eye, and he stared at it in surprise.

It said: THE CHURCH OF MODERN-DAY BELIEFS.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lorenzo Moorcock was on the podium, delivering an energetic sermon to a somewhat less than energetic-looking flock. Some of them, looking as if they had only come inside to keep warm, were huddled in the rear pews. The more interested flock members were in the front three rows, listening in rapt attention. Remo stood in the back, next to the door, and scanned the pews for any sign of either kid. When he came up empty, he started to listen.

"…must always remember, dear brothers and sisters, that the old ways are dead. The Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, the Bible— they are all things of the past and should stay in the past."

Remo wondered why he bothered calling this place a church. Wasn't that an "old" word?

"In the future, we will not even call our meeting place a church," Moorcock said, as if he'd read Remo's mind. "This will simply be the place of meeting."

Catchy, Remo thought.

He went on to talk about something he kept calling "The Satan." In order to modernize their beliefs, he said, they would believe in everything "The Satan" did not believe in. They would advocate free love, abortion, collectivism, and communism. They would look upon the Ayatollah Khomeini as a great man, a great humanitarian, a true leader of the world.

It didn't take Remo very long to figure out that "The Satan" was the United States. It was a term that Khomeini himself was fond of when referring to the United States, and Moorcock was obviously a big Ayatollah booster.

"…I know I have given you all much food for thought this evening, so I ask you now to go to your homes and contemplate everything I've said. I must also ask you all to stop at the collection plates in the center aisle on your way out and give from your heart. A minimum donation of five dollars is suggested, but feel free to give more."

Remo looked at the collection "plates" on either side of the center aisle and saw two collection "barrels" that looked as large as the ones the forty thieves had hidden in.

He watched as the people left, and damned if everyone who had been sitting in the first three rows didn't drop five bucks or more into the jugs.

Moorcock walked with some people to the rear of the "place of meeting," obviously trying to coax more money out of them. When he saw Remo, he wished his flock members a good evening and approached him.

"You came," he said.

"Apparently."

"To scoff?"

"I came to ask questions."

"Ah, you seek wisdom."

"In a manner of speaking."

"Walk with me," Moorcock said, and started back down the center aisle.

"Aren't you going to take in your collection?"

Moorcock threw a glance at the urns, then said, "No one will steal from me."

"That may not be a modern attitude, but it's different."

"What wisdom do you seek?"

"I'm looking for someone."

"Who?"

"A white kid, about ffteen, or a black kid the same age," Remo said.

"You have no particular preference?" Moorcock asked. Remo saw that his eyes were the same as they had been in the Martin house, dark and intense, with a lot of white showing.

"Either or," Remo said. "There were two of them. One or both might have ducked in here."

"You were chasing them?"

"I was watching them, and I lost them. They came this way."

They reached the front of the church and stopped. Moorcock turned to face Remo.

"They did not come in here."

"Would you tell me if they had?"

"Why were you chasing them?"

"They were consummating a drug deal."

"Are you a policeman?"

"No."

"Why do you care, then? If they, or anyone, wishes to indulge in drugs, why should anyone stop them?"

"Is that one of your modern beliefs?"

"A minor one. That our bodies are ours and we may do what we wish with them."

"Oh, that's good. Original."

"You came to scoff."

"I came here looking for two kids," Remo said with exasperation.

"And I told you they are not here."

Remo considered pressing the self-styled minister a little harder, but at that moment he saw something move behind the man.

"Is there a back door to this place?"

"Yes, but…" Moorcock started to say, and then glanced quickly toward it.

"Thanks," Remo said, rushing past him.

Whoever had been hiding behind the rear door was gone. It had to have been one of the two kids, but which one?

It didn't really matter, he decided. The black kid was just a junkie, and the white kid— Lou's kid— he could find again whenever he wanted. Just then he had another idea.

He went back to the alley where the drug deal had been made. Starting from that point, he began to walk the ghetto streets, looking for a junkie or a dealer, whichever came first.

He drew a lot of looks and some sotto voce remarks, but there was something about this white man that kept anyone from approaching him. The way he walked, he seemed to be just waiting for someone to make a move on him. The eyes riveted on Remo seemed to say that this was one crazy white dude, and nobody wanted a piece of him.

It wasn't long before Remo found a junkie, a wasted-looking man in his twenties with a runny nose, sitting in a doorway.

"Hey, yo, man," the junkie said. He was so dirty, he might have been white or black. "Got any money, man? A dollar? A dime?"

"Neither one will buy you the high you need, friend," Remo said, crouching down to the junkie's level. "I've got a high you can get without a needle. A high you'll never believe."

"Shit," the junkie said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

"I'm serious. But it doesn't come free."

"Aw, man. I ain't got no money," the junkie said in obvious despair.

"This high doesn't cost money."

"You ain't shittin' me? What's it gonna cost me?"

"A name."

"What name? Mine?"

"A dealer."

"Aw, man… I can't give up my source." His tone of voice had gone from despair to anguish.

"I don't want your source," Remo said. "I want any source, any name you care to give me."

A cunning glint came into the man's previously dull and listless eyes, and he said, "Anyone?"

"As long as he's a dealer," Remo said. "But if you give me a phony name, I'll come back for you, and instead of a high, I'll give you the worst crash of your life."

Remo touched the junkie briefly, and a shadow of pain crossed his face. It was so fleeting, the pain, that the junkie wasn't even sure he'd felt it, but it prompted the truth from him.

"Try Danny the Man."

"Danny the Man. What's his last name?"

"I don't know. All anybody knows is Danny the Man."

"Where do I find him?"

The junkie gave Remo an address and then gave him directions for getting there.

"Just don't tell him I gave you his name."

"I don't even know yours. But I'll find you if this isn't true."

"It's true, man, it's true," the junkie said, grabbing Remo's arms. "Where's my high, man? You promised!"

"So I did," Remo said. He pulled his arms free of the man's frantic grip, reached around behind him, and touched him on the back of the neck. A euphoric look came over the junkie's face, and he leaned back against the door.

"Oh, wow," he breathed.

"Yeah," Remo said. "You don't know it, but you've just taken the cure. After this, you'll never find another high to match it."

"Oh, wow."

"Thanks for the info."

Remo left the junkie flying high in his doorway and started following the man's directions. The junkie had said it was close enough to walk.