MARKS HAD ONCE AGAIN made it impossible for her to sleep. It did not help to try to deny his information. It did not work to tell herself that Romano was above the petty strong-arm gangsterism of the protection racket. Or that he would not take advantage of an inquiry that came from her. And the hypocrisy of saying he admired Butts’ quixotic war on drugs was the most disillusioning. As though illusions about Mafiosi were allowed.
The real betrayer she should be concerned with was herself. No, that was excessive, though what it was an excess of she wasn’t certain. She was feeling sorry for Butts, that much was clear; and that was better than feeling sorry for herself. Only when she made up her mind to visit Butts again in the morning was Julie able to get through to her mantra and ease herself into sleep with the remembered, repetitive sound of the sea.
HE SHOOK HER HAND vigorously and proclaimed himself delighted that she had come to see him again. The carpenters were gone, the painters had come. He took her into the arena with the dance run circling them. “I’ve decided against the strobe lighting,” he said. “It’s not supposed to look grand or glamorous. Nothing more than adequate—and safe. The whole character of the dance marathon is in its intimacy, people sharing a dance for survival.” She could now detect a kind of desperation in his hype, but there was courage in it also. He turned her around to see where rows of seats that looked to have been salvaged in the demolition of an old movie house were tiered on platforms. “How many seats?”
“Two hundred. Not allowed to have more.” He shrugged resignedly. “It’s the comfort facilities; we need them all for the contestants and I can’t afford to install more.”
“How many contestants?”
“We closed out at four hundred. Except for standbys. Are you surprised at the number?”
Julie shook her head.
“Shall we go to the office? It’s more comfortable than here. No paint. Can’t afford that either. Oh, I’m not complaining. I’m blessed in having got this far without my poor friend Jay to guide me.”
In the office where the clutter had become monumental, Butts removed a stack of handbills from a chair so that Julie could sit down. He gave her one of the handbills. It advertised the television kick-off with several name personalities scheduled to take part.
“Quite a roster,” Julie said.
“There’s still room for you aboard—if you’ve changed your mind.”
“I understand my article showed up after all.”
“Yes,” he said, and thought for a few seconds before saying, “I can’t offer you what I offered Tony Alexander, of course…”
“Neither expected nor wanted,” Julie said, “but I think I know why you made it to Tony—so that he wouldn’t interfere with the resurrection of the Reverend Jeremiah Fox.”
The smile he gave her was like that of a little boy, and he gathered his fist at his breast, a submissive, religious gesture. “You can’t know, Mrs. Hayes, the thrill you have given me, saying that name out loud. No matter whether you mean to do good or evil to me now, I won’t forget just hearing you say the name.”
Julie felt uncomfortable. Power was not her thing. “I don’t intend to do evil, Mr. Butts.”
“Nobody does except the devil and them he gets possession of. I don’t think Mr. Alexander did, but he was frightened and that frightened me, and that’s what makes people do bad things to one another.”
“Are you speaking of last week or something that happened long ago in Albion, Ohio?”
“Of the night he died, the night I ran away and left him to die. If I’d stayed with him, he might be alive today.”
“Or you might both be dead.”
“I don’t justify myself,” Butts said. “I don’t believe in self-justification, but I do wonder what he’d have done to thwart my plans for the Garden of Roses if he had lived. I mention it because I am vulnerable if you decide to take advantage.”
“I have no such intention, Mr. Butts.”
“Then I am much beholden to you. Do you mind if I ask how you heard about Jeremiah Fox?”
“Some old newspapers, some old actors. I know you saved Jay Phillips from an awful mess and probably tried to help him with his problem.”
“I can’t really say I did that, Mrs. Hayes. I did baptize him, satisfying the girl’s parents of his repentance, but in all honesty I must say I felt she should’ve been the repentant one. Very precocious.”
Oh, men, Julie thought. She said, “And I know that you and Tony traded accusations.”
“I never heard anything so vicious described so politely. I didn’t know him as Tony Alexander, Mrs. Hayes. Or if I heard the name it wasn’t the one I remembered him by…not till I met him again the night he was going to die.”
“And I know about the baby,” Julie said.
“What do you know?”
“That you accidentally drowned it.”
Butts doubled his fists and pounded them on his knees. “That just plain isn’t so. That baby was on the verge of death when he was put into my hands. His father wanted a miracle. I wanted one. I needed one, and I prayed for one. But the Lord wanted that baby and he took him right out of my hands. I stood accused and the loudest of my accusers was the young reporter who led the charge when they ran me out of town.
“It destroyed my ministry. It destroyed my religion. I called myself God’s fool after that. I signed on with a circus as its chaplain, and doubled as a clown. I’ve been on the fringes of show business ever since.”
“Which eventually brought you back into contact with Jay Phillips,” Julie said.
“A few years ago when I brought a mini-circus to the vest pocket parks of New York.”
“I don’t really see where Tony could have hurt you very much at this date,” Julie said.
“He said that himself. He asked me what I thought he could do. But when you are as badly damaged as I am, Mrs. Hayes, you are like an animal that never gets over its fear of the broom. When he put together your article and my takeover of the Garden, I was sure he would once more destroy me. You must not mock me in this or I may fall again from grace. I have promised the Lord that if my faith is restored I will build Him a new temple, and that is my true plan for the Garden of Roses.”
“Okay,” Julie said. “Let me know when you’re ready to break it to the press.”
“I would show you the blueprints,” he said, almost perking up to his old self. Then he flattened out again. “But the fact is, they’ve been stolen from me…and I may never be able to use them anyway.”
Stolen by Romano’s minions? Julie thought so. “I’m sorry,” she said, and decided that while it might be good for her soul to admit the true nature of her regrets, it would not speed the little minister’s recovery of his faith.