Epilogue

There is something genuinely cathartic about the Tampa Humidor. Being there, seated in leather, indulging in my one true vice, I was at peace in a calamitous world.

Mind you, it had been the first little bit of peace I had been able to enjoy since Wall’s brief homicidal rage and subsequent confession. Of course, if the man hated me before, he certainly did after he learned that I had bold-faced lied about the video camera recording everything. The damn thing wasn’t even plugged in.

But, unfortunately for Wall, that revelation came too late to save him from blurting out every detail of his crime. Don’t ask me to feel bad. I won’t.

“This seat taken?” asked a familiar voice. I looked up and smiled.

“It is, now. I haven’t seen you for a few days. Are you okay?”

Bishop smiled as he sat next to me, a newly lit Padron in his fingers.

“The wife and I have been seeing to Anita. The poor thing has been through so much, and she’s only now been able to process her grief.”

I nodded, understandingly. I felt for her. Even after Wall laid it all out, Anita was still put through the works. They wanted to be certain that Wall wasn’t just covering for her. I had wanted to spare her all that, but it wasn’t up to me.

In the end, Anita was cleared. There was a round of apologies and offerings of sympathy from the people at the ATF and the FBI, but each and every one was marked indelibly with shame. Those agents may have been following procedures, but they all knew that they had put this woman through hell, after she had lost her husband in the line of duty.

“Is she going back to South Carolina?” I asked.

“Eventually. She asked to stay with us for a little longer, and we were happy to oblige,” he told me, with his sad smile. “Have you been to see Boyer?”

I nodded.

“I was in with him just last night. He’s scheduled to get out of the hospital in a few days. Still mad as hell, though. He really does not like to be confined to a bed,” I said, attempting a smile. I still felt pretty guilty, myself, about Boyer. It was my plan that got him shot, nearly got him killed.

“That was a pretty nasty concussion, and those fractures to his sternum are no laughing matter, either.”

Bishop stopped for a moment and looked at me, somehow seeing what was going on in my mind.

“You know, Lester, I’ve been reading some of my old sermons lately.”

I looked up, waiting for the point. Bishop is not one for flights of ego, so I knew there was a reason why he would be digging up the ghost of preaching past.

“Early on, I took to writing them all down. At first, I did it so that I could dust one off when and if I ever hit a slump,” he said, chuckling. “Then later, as I grew into my position, I wanted a record, so that one day, when I looked back, I could see how far I had come in my understanding, both of the scriptures, and my audience.”

“And that’s what you’ve been doing?” I asked. Bishop nodded.

“After this business with Anita, I’ve been asking some serious questions about who I am.”

“I’d think you were the last person to have to worry about that, Bishop,” I reassured. I meant it, too.

“Thank you, but…Lester, I haven’t really apologized to you. When I got you involved in Anita’s trouble, I didn’t think about how dangerous it would be. I didn’t think about what trials and difficulties I would be heaping onto your shoulders. I didn’t think of…I didn’t think of you.”

“Bishop you don’t need to explain,” I insisted. He just shook his head.

“I’ve been looking through those sermons because I want to find what I lost, and where. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that there’s more to a problem than finding the solution.” Bishop slumped forward. I didn’t interrupt. Even though I disagreed, this was clearly something he had to get off his chest. “When I brought you in, Lester, all I could think about was that if anybody could help, you could. I never thought about what you would be put through on my account.”

“That’s the thing about friendship, Bishop. You aren’t supposed to think about that stuff, otherwise you’d never ask for help.”

“I appreciate that,” he said in reply, “but it still doesn’t excuse putting you in that kind of danger.”

I relented. Sometimes, a man has to find his own way out of guilt.

“Alright. So what did you learn from all those old sermons?”

The Bishop paused for a moment, as though he were about to expound upon a grand revelation that he had painstakingly pursued through the farthest reaches of memory and collaboration.

“Not a blessed thing.”

Well, so much for grand revelations.

“Except…”

I don’t know why, but it just dawned on me that I was literally on the edge of my seat waiting to hear about a sermon. There were just so many things that were wrong with that.

“Except?” I asked, by way of encouragement for him to continue his thought.

“I came across a sermon that I never actually gave. It was a piece on Romans 5:7: Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man some might possibly dare to die.”

“Catchy,” I quipped, “and so upbeat.” Bishop made a face to indicate that he acknowledged my amusement.

“The point that I made in my sermon was that the Bible seemed to indicate that there was a difference between a good man and a righteous man. You see, a good man is someone you can count on, someone that will be there for you when you’re in trouble. He might even take the fall for you. A man like that is someone that you care about, even love.”

“And a righteous man?” I asked.

“By definition, a righteous man is someone who does what is right, what is God’s will. He can be trusted, but not counted on, because if he doesn’t believe that what you’re doing is right, he will not help you. He might even try to stop you.”

“So, that’s why people will die for a good man, but not a righteous man,” I concluded. The Bishop nodded, approvingly. “I still don’t see what this has to do with any of this,” I confessed.

“It has to do with me, Lester. Reading over that old sermon, I figured out what was bothering me: I was trying to determine if I was attempting to be a good man, or a righteous man. I couldn’t really decide if my actions were those of a man trying to help a friend, or of a man trying to right a wrong, at any cost.”

“You didn’t like your answer,” I guessed.

“It’s more accurate to say, I was dissatisfied that I had to choose between the two.”

I thought this through. It made sense to me, in a strange kind of way.

“What kind of man do you think I am, Bishop?”

Bishop smiled brightly.

“That is just the thing, Lester. You are my hope. Because, you see, when I look at you, I am tempted to believe that a man could possibly be both.”

I had no words to say to that. Never before in my life had I ever been given a more complete and incorruptible compliment.

Fortunately, before I could embarrass myself with a pathetic and lame attempt of a response, Mike came by.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, “how are you, today?” Both Bishop and I expressed our pleasure in so many words.

“Good, good. Lester, I heard a rumor that you made a donation to the FBI.”

I groaned at the memory. As we sat there, a number of Federal Agents were across town, having a wake in the memory of their two fallen comrades. Their spirits, in this time of need, were buoyed by the restorative powers of a box of Graycliffs.

“It was suggested that, since the box was purchased with money that rightfully belonged to the FBI, that it would be the right thing to do,” I informed him. Mike made a face indicating his understanding of how much that would have had to hurt. Then, he smiled slyly.

“Well, with all you’ve been through, consider this a consolation prize.” And with that, Mike presented me with one single Graycliff Cigar.

I looked up at him. Mike was a good guy, but he usually restricted the laying on of freebies to special events. He shrugged.

“After all that, you should at least get to smoke one.” He patted me on the shoulder, waved again to Bishop, and headed back to his office. I wasted no time cutting and lighting.

“Tell me something, Bishop,” I asked between puffs. “Why didn’t you ever deliver that sermon you wrote?”

For a moment, I suspected he wasn’t going to answer.

“Several reasons,” he said. “For starters, it wasn’t very good. A good preacher doesn’t include supposition and theory in his sermon. We’re supposed to be expounding on scriptural doctrine. I strayed away from that on this one.”

“And second?”

“Who would it help? Tearing apart one little verse might be interesting, academically, even literally—but what real practical use would it serve? If a minister isn’t reaching the needs of his congregation, then it doesn’t matter how smart he proves himself to be. When I think about it, I wonder why I even bothered to keep it in the first place.”

I smiled

“Oh, I know the answer to that, my old friend. You kept it for this day. When you would need it.”

Bishop looked at me with a strange look in his eye. He was probably wondering if he was starting to actually get through to me. Maybe he was. Maybe there was a lesson in all of this, after all.

I hoped so. I started out with a $500 cash surplus, but with all the gas I’d used up running around town, repairs to my house, and all the little expenses I had incurred, not to mention all the favors I’d had to use up—I was well into a financial deficit for this adventure, and I couldn’t even keep the box of Graycliffs. All I had to show for it, really, was my consolation prize from Mike.

With that, I picked up my sole remaining Graycliff from its perch on the ashtray and took a puff. I made a face. It had gone cold.

There’s your life lesson, if you need one:

You can be enjoying the finest hand-rolled cigar ever made, savoring every sweet, peppery inhalation. But let your attention wander for just one moment, allow your thoughts to drift, be inattentive—and before you know it…

You’re smoking ash.