“Good news,” Steve said on the phone as he drove through Verner.
“I’ve got a client for sure.”
“Mr. LaSalle?”
“The same. And here is something that will interest you. He wants to form a church.”
Pause. “What kind of church?”
“A Christian church of some kind. That’s why I’m calling you. I figure you can help me figure out all that religious stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Yeah. My brother wants to be a minister. He’s a convicted felon. I don’t know anything about people going into the ministry, if there’s a license requirement and all that. You seem to be an expert on these matters.”
“Hardly.”
“So when can we start?”
“I have classes today.”
“Tomorrow then. Noon. My office. We’ll do lunch.”
“Do lunch? Are you a lawyer or a movie producer?”
Steve didn’t care at this point. All he knew was he wanted to see her again.
That she was religious didn’t seem to be an obstacle. The same way it wasn’t an obstacle between him and Johnny. People were people, right? They all had the same junk inside; some dealt with it one way, some another.
Some did drugs, then got off drugs, then thought about doing drugs again.
Some used religion as a drug. The opiate of the masses.
Big deal. Of all the places to be born into, the world was about the worst, and everybody was on the same boat. You had to snag whoever came by who seemed like a halfway decent person and see if you could keep each other warm.
Once, Ashley had kept him warm, and he liked her warmth. But it was gone now and that was that. Sienna Ciccone was here now, and that was also that.
Steve drove leisurely, taking in the environment. Verner had an actual downtown, with rows of shops. Boutiques, hardware, shoes, antiques, books. The place hadn’t been Wal-Marted yet, though it did have the obligatory Starbucks. He stopped in and treated himself to a Mocha Frap. It was a long drive back to LA.
He walked around a little. Verner had a nice-looking Mexican grill and a Carl’s Jr. A bowling alley and a two-screen theater. Brad Pitt’s latest, along with some teen horror flick, the kind that inevitably featured the latest TV hotties making their big-screen debuts in an entirely forgettable waste of celluloid. The posters always featured the ample bosom of the latest eye candy, who would soon enough occupy the same dustbin of cultural irrelevancy as Paris Hilton.
All in all, it seemed like a perfect place for his brother to start his re-entry into society. Not a big city with concentrated temptations. But not so small that you couldn’t find some things to do. Steve thought he might even take up bowling and roll a few with Johnny.
What if he even moved out here sometime? Could be the right kind of place for him to start over again too. Him and Johnny, same place again.
Still, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of his brother and the company he kept. Steve had defended a lot of cons, and the odds of their staying out of trouble after they got sprung were pretty low. Johnny seemed determined. He wasn’t so sure about that guy Rennie.
Rennie no doubt had trouble tattooed on his chest.
Steve got back to the Ark and drove toward the highway. At the edge of town he saw a brown brick building and a six-point star sign that said Sheriff. He paused, then turned left into the outdoor parking lot. He’d come all this way. Why not bunch up on the tasks?
Inside, it had a revamped look. Fresh coat of beige paint on the walls, clean brown carpeting, a Western painting on the wall — a couple of cowpunchers beneath an orange sunset. Behind the reception desk, a woman of about fifty worked a keyboard. She got up when she saw Steve standing there.
He took out one of his attorney cards and handed it to her. “Stephen Conroy. I talked to a Lieutenant Oderkirk.”
She looked up from the card, her face ashen. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Terrible. An accident. Four days ago.”
Steve couldn’t find a word.
“He was driving,” the woman said. “At night. We don’t know exactly. He went off the road.” She looked down.
“Is he hurt bad?”
“He died,” she said.
A jolt ripped through Steve. “I’m sorry.”
“We are too. He was a good man. Had a wife and two daughters.”
“He was helping me.”
She said nothing.
“Is the sheriff in?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t expect him back today. I think he’s at the mortuary, in fact. The funeral’s on Saturday.”
“Which mortuary would that be?”
“There’s only one. Bruck. It’s over on Hazleton.”
Bruck sounded familiar. Then he remembered it was the mortuary where Robert’s autopsy was performed.
“How do I get there?” he asked.