Read Online Good to Be God by Tibor Fischer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tibor Fischer
Tags: Religión, Fiction, Literary, General, Suspense, Social Science, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, True Crime, Criminology, Florida, Miami, Identity Theft, Impostors and Imposture, Christian Church, City churches - Florida - Miami, City churches
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doesn’t look dangerous.
Average height, light build, accompanied by a drunk, tubby guy; you can see that it would be tempting.
Dave orders an Ecuadorian omelette for me despite my protests, and then holds forth about noirisme and how Papa Doc tried to make himself into a God, something I suppose I should pay attention to, but I can’t.
52
GOOD TO BE GOD
“Power is the drug that destroys the strong,” he concludes.
“You aren’t eating your eggs.”
“I’m sorry, I’m really not hungry.”
“We’re not leaving until you eat your eggs.” He’s not joking.
I push my food around on the plate while Dave lectures on the role of the army in Haiti. “Haiti is the smallest democracy in the world; there’s only one voter: the army.” I attempt to get the waitress to call for a taxi, but Dave countermands my request by saying something in Spanish which makes the waitress smile.
Fortunately Dave goes to the restroom and I swiftly bin the eggs.
“Okay. Home time,” I say with relief outside. My vision is fading.
“You look terrible,” says Dave. “What you need is a good shave. I bet you’ve never been shaved, proper old-fashioned, at a barber’s.”
I look up and down the street, desperate for a taxi. One glides past unavailably with a passenger.
“You promised,” I say, fully aware I sound six years old.
“After a good shave. You’ll be amazed how good it’ll make you feel. I know the best barber in Miami.”
Dave’s car draws up outside a huge sign that says “WANT A FIGHT?” Am I hallucinating? The last thing I want is a fight.
“How can you call a barber’s ‘Want a Fight?’”
“This is Miami. You can do anything you want. That’s why I wanted to check up on you. Visitors here, they just loco-fy.
Hard-working, churchgoing family men, they come here and it’s like one of those stop-motion films, you can see them growing horns in front of you. A day or two here and they’re holed up in a motel, surrounded by empty bottles, on the phone to Bogotá and moaning some chiquita. We’re craziness central. When they 53
TIBOR FISCHER
flew those planes into the World Trade Center in New York, you know what we were saying down here? We’re in on this. Don’t know how, but we’re in on it. And we were. All craziness checks in to Miami.”
We’re seated, and as our bristles are removed we watch on the huge screens above us the last round of Tyson vs Holmes.
Then at Dave’s request they put on the Rumble in the Jungle, Ali vs Foreman. He stares at the screen open-mouthed with such childlike joy that I forget how angry I am with him. There’s something enjoyable about watching someone enjoy themselves, but nevertheless because the chair is so comfortable, I fall asleep.
Dave wakes me up. “So how about one for the road?”
G
The next day I draw up outside the Church of the Heavily Armed Christ, in a run-down sprawl of Miami Beach that isn’t yet billionaire-heavy. Three blocks away cranes and new steel are on the skyline, but here there’s a burnt-out restaurant opposite, and a string of boarded-up premises that were thriving concerns forty years ago. Finding a parking space is no problem.
Above the doors of the church there’s a skilfully painted image of Christ, looking, well, Christ-like, but nursing a rifle with a freakishly large magazine. The church itself is an unimpressive building, a prefab hall, unimaginatively rectangular and dull. A little sooty on the outside, with blotchy paintwork. This is the sort of church that could be hijacked. Own premises, but not too successful. No hardened freeloaders ready to protect the trough.
The door opens. So far, so good. That’s as it should be, though as I enter it also strikes me there’s nothing worth stealing. Some 54
GOOD TO BE GOD
vased flowers. Two small piles of hymn books. There are five rows of pews, so a maximum congregation of sixty or so.
I make my way to the back, where a door is marked “Hierophant’s
Average height, light build, accompanied by a drunk, tubby guy; you can see that it would be tempting.
Dave orders an Ecuadorian omelette for me despite my protests, and then holds forth about noirisme and how Papa Doc tried to make himself into a God, something I suppose I should pay attention to, but I can’t.
52
GOOD TO BE GOD
“Power is the drug that destroys the strong,” he concludes.
“You aren’t eating your eggs.”
“I’m sorry, I’m really not hungry.”
“We’re not leaving until you eat your eggs.” He’s not joking.
I push my food around on the plate while Dave lectures on the role of the army in Haiti. “Haiti is the smallest democracy in the world; there’s only one voter: the army.” I attempt to get the waitress to call for a taxi, but Dave countermands my request by saying something in Spanish which makes the waitress smile.
Fortunately Dave goes to the restroom and I swiftly bin the eggs.
“Okay. Home time,” I say with relief outside. My vision is fading.
“You look terrible,” says Dave. “What you need is a good shave. I bet you’ve never been shaved, proper old-fashioned, at a barber’s.”
I look up and down the street, desperate for a taxi. One glides past unavailably with a passenger.
“You promised,” I say, fully aware I sound six years old.
“After a good shave. You’ll be amazed how good it’ll make you feel. I know the best barber in Miami.”
Dave’s car draws up outside a huge sign that says “WANT A FIGHT?” Am I hallucinating? The last thing I want is a fight.
“How can you call a barber’s ‘Want a Fight?’”
“This is Miami. You can do anything you want. That’s why I wanted to check up on you. Visitors here, they just loco-fy.
Hard-working, churchgoing family men, they come here and it’s like one of those stop-motion films, you can see them growing horns in front of you. A day or two here and they’re holed up in a motel, surrounded by empty bottles, on the phone to Bogotá and moaning some chiquita. We’re craziness central. When they 53
TIBOR FISCHER
flew those planes into the World Trade Center in New York, you know what we were saying down here? We’re in on this. Don’t know how, but we’re in on it. And we were. All craziness checks in to Miami.”
We’re seated, and as our bristles are removed we watch on the huge screens above us the last round of Tyson vs Holmes.
Then at Dave’s request they put on the Rumble in the Jungle, Ali vs Foreman. He stares at the screen open-mouthed with such childlike joy that I forget how angry I am with him. There’s something enjoyable about watching someone enjoy themselves, but nevertheless because the chair is so comfortable, I fall asleep.
Dave wakes me up. “So how about one for the road?”
G
The next day I draw up outside the Church of the Heavily Armed Christ, in a run-down sprawl of Miami Beach that isn’t yet billionaire-heavy. Three blocks away cranes and new steel are on the skyline, but here there’s a burnt-out restaurant opposite, and a string of boarded-up premises that were thriving concerns forty years ago. Finding a parking space is no problem.
Above the doors of the church there’s a skilfully painted image of Christ, looking, well, Christ-like, but nursing a rifle with a freakishly large magazine. The church itself is an unimpressive building, a prefab hall, unimaginatively rectangular and dull. A little sooty on the outside, with blotchy paintwork. This is the sort of church that could be hijacked. Own premises, but not too successful. No hardened freeloaders ready to protect the trough.
The door opens. So far, so good. That’s as it should be, though as I enter it also strikes me there’s nothing worth stealing. Some 54
GOOD TO BE GOD
vased flowers. Two small piles of hymn books. There are five rows of pews, so a maximum congregation of sixty or so.
I make my way to the back, where a door is marked “Hierophant’s
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