Read Online The Godless One by J. Clayton Rogers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. Clayton Rogers
Tags: War, Mystery & Suspense, assassin, Sniper, immigrant, us marshal, american military, iraq invasion, uday hussein
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mess (and throwing
out the kitty litter box and its contents in toto ), he had started a scented
candle to combat the smell and forgotten all about it. The result
was a large yellow mass on the kitchen counter, where the candle
had guttered.
He showed the visitors to the kitchen
and the two chairs at the table, the only furniture downstairs. He
told them he would be back in a moment, then staggered upstairs.
After toweling himself off in the bathroom, he sat on the toilet
seat and assembled his thoughts—or rather, reassembled his ability
to assemble thoughts. He stood and looked in the mirror.
This would not do. It was rude to make
guests wait, but ruder still to make them sit across from an
unshaven, unwashed man verging on middle age. And who, to these
virtuous white men, undoubtedly already looked a bit grimy by
virtue of his skin tone.
Standing in the shower, running a razor
over his face as the hot water sizzled on his skin, he wondered if
Howie was enjoying this moment under his roof. Ever since Detective
Carrington had forced him to break into Ari’s house in search for
the cocaine stash, he had betrayed a steady level of uneasiness.
Did Ari know what he had done? If so, did he understand why? They
never discussed it, and Ari had no qualms about maintaining his
uncertainty. Howie was the founder of the local Neighborhood Watch,
and he had been dancing the B&E with his closest neighbor. Ari
leveraged Howie’s sense of guilt into mild favors: the use of a
tool here, a place on the Neighborhood Watch there, tolerance for
the loud parties at the Mackenzies—which Ari invariably attended
because they offered proximity to Tracy Mackenzie, a Middle Eastern
man’s dream of an American sexpot. Morally speaking, Ari felt he
owed Howie something in return for this unspoken blackmail. But
that would not include joining the Methodist Church. Ari geared
himself up to politely decline an offer of baptism.
Returning to the kitchen, he found
Howie busily scraping the melted candle wax off his
counter.
"That was kind of dangerous, you know,
letting it burn down all the way like that."
"Please…" Ari began.
"No problem." Howie waved him off with
a cringe. He was using a butter knife so as not to scratch the
counter’s acrylic surface. Grainger looked on with bemusement, as
if wondering if Howie was taking neighborly love a touch too far.
But Ari was starting to think he might be able to finesse Howie’s
guilt into work on the house. The lawn was already seen to: the
federal authorities used a mock lawn service company to disguise
some of their visits. Ari hoped he would be gone by next Spring,
when Ted’s Lawn Service would return—although Deputy Fred Donzetti,
who ran the bogus company, promised prompt snow removal in case
Richmond suffered one of its rare blizzards.
Ari leaned against the refrigerator
while Howie swept wax fragments into his palm and deposited them in
the trash.
"I can’t come into this house without
thinking of its previous occupants," said Pastor Grainger with an
appropriate dosage of melancholia.
Ari and Howie relinquished comments for
polite nods.
"They were members of my church, you
know…Jerry and Moria. Well, not so much Jerry…but they were both
excellent members of the community."
Ari thought this was a pretty sterile
judgment on the Riggins family, but only nodded again.
"You like exercise, Mr. Ciminon?"
Grainger asked suddenly, pleasantly.
"Ari, please. And please remove your
coat. You must be very hot."
The pastor stood and removed his coat,
revealing his clergy shirt and tab collar, and draped it over the
back of the chair. He looked very fit. Ari sized him up as a cross
between a ballet dancer and a bantamweight.
"There," said Howie as he finished with
the candle. With a slope of his hand, he directed Ari to a
chair.
Ari returned the gesture. "No,
please…"
"But it’s your house."
"All the more reason for you to be
seated."
Observing the impasse, Grainger
shrugged and
out the kitty litter box and its contents in toto ), he had started a scented
candle to combat the smell and forgotten all about it. The result
was a large yellow mass on the kitchen counter, where the candle
had guttered.
He showed the visitors to the kitchen
and the two chairs at the table, the only furniture downstairs. He
told them he would be back in a moment, then staggered upstairs.
After toweling himself off in the bathroom, he sat on the toilet
seat and assembled his thoughts—or rather, reassembled his ability
to assemble thoughts. He stood and looked in the mirror.
This would not do. It was rude to make
guests wait, but ruder still to make them sit across from an
unshaven, unwashed man verging on middle age. And who, to these
virtuous white men, undoubtedly already looked a bit grimy by
virtue of his skin tone.
Standing in the shower, running a razor
over his face as the hot water sizzled on his skin, he wondered if
Howie was enjoying this moment under his roof. Ever since Detective
Carrington had forced him to break into Ari’s house in search for
the cocaine stash, he had betrayed a steady level of uneasiness.
Did Ari know what he had done? If so, did he understand why? They
never discussed it, and Ari had no qualms about maintaining his
uncertainty. Howie was the founder of the local Neighborhood Watch,
and he had been dancing the B&E with his closest neighbor. Ari
leveraged Howie’s sense of guilt into mild favors: the use of a
tool here, a place on the Neighborhood Watch there, tolerance for
the loud parties at the Mackenzies—which Ari invariably attended
because they offered proximity to Tracy Mackenzie, a Middle Eastern
man’s dream of an American sexpot. Morally speaking, Ari felt he
owed Howie something in return for this unspoken blackmail. But
that would not include joining the Methodist Church. Ari geared
himself up to politely decline an offer of baptism.
Returning to the kitchen, he found
Howie busily scraping the melted candle wax off his
counter.
"That was kind of dangerous, you know,
letting it burn down all the way like that."
"Please…" Ari began.
"No problem." Howie waved him off with
a cringe. He was using a butter knife so as not to scratch the
counter’s acrylic surface. Grainger looked on with bemusement, as
if wondering if Howie was taking neighborly love a touch too far.
But Ari was starting to think he might be able to finesse Howie’s
guilt into work on the house. The lawn was already seen to: the
federal authorities used a mock lawn service company to disguise
some of their visits. Ari hoped he would be gone by next Spring,
when Ted’s Lawn Service would return—although Deputy Fred Donzetti,
who ran the bogus company, promised prompt snow removal in case
Richmond suffered one of its rare blizzards.
Ari leaned against the refrigerator
while Howie swept wax fragments into his palm and deposited them in
the trash.
"I can’t come into this house without
thinking of its previous occupants," said Pastor Grainger with an
appropriate dosage of melancholia.
Ari and Howie relinquished comments for
polite nods.
"They were members of my church, you
know…Jerry and Moria. Well, not so much Jerry…but they were both
excellent members of the community."
Ari thought this was a pretty sterile
judgment on the Riggins family, but only nodded again.
"You like exercise, Mr. Ciminon?"
Grainger asked suddenly, pleasantly.
"Ari, please. And please remove your
coat. You must be very hot."
The pastor stood and removed his coat,
revealing his clergy shirt and tab collar, and draped it over the
back of the chair. He looked very fit. Ari sized him up as a cross
between a ballet dancer and a bantamweight.
"There," said Howie as he finished with
the candle. With a slope of his hand, he directed Ari to a
chair.
Ari returned the gesture. "No,
please…"
"But it’s your house."
"All the more reason for you to be
seated."
Observing the impasse, Grainger
shrugged and
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