Capitol Punishment. Andrew Welsh-Huggins
I DON’T NORMALLY DRINK BEFORE JOBS, but Roy called me as I headed home, insistent we get a beer. I didn’t need much persuading. I had a few hours to kill before picking up Hershey, and Roy made it sound serious, and what’s the worst that could happen? Which is how I found myself shortly before eight that night at Heyl’s Tavern a couple blocks from my house in German Village, staring at my can of Black Label as I took in the bombshell he had just dropped.
“Closing the church,” I said.
“You heard me.”
“The soup kitchen too?”
“Afraid so.”
“But that’s your livelihood. No, more than that. It’s what you do. Like in a cosmic sense.”
“Yeah, well, cosmic sense ain’t paying the bills.”
I took a drink of my beer and wrestled with the news. Roy had been single-handedly running the Church of the Holy Apostolic Fire and its accompanying soup kitchen in Franklinton, the tough neighborhood just west of downtown, for as long as I’d known him, which was just after he returned from his second tour of Iraq with a fistful of medals and minus part of one leg. Something had happened over there—to this day he hadn’t told me what exactly—that inspired in him a strong desire not to return to his prewar career as a chaplain at a suburban hospital chain.
“Things are that bad?”
“Donations never really came back to prerecession levels,” he said. “Been limping by on Sunday collections and grants and the odd hundred-dollar bill some dope boy drops in the gutter by accident. We’re mainly living off Lucy’s salary, to be honest.”
“Could you retire and just play golf?”
“With my handicap?”
“What would you do?”
“Dunno,” he said. “St. Clare said they’d take me on full-time, doing outreach work. But I’m not sure I want to work for a hospital again.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Got any rich uncles?”
“Got one who’s a pig farmer. Does that count?”
“Way I’m headed it might.”
We were silent for a minute, sipping our beers. Roy was having something dark and hoppy. The Indians were on TV, losing to the Royals.
“Seems like too much at times,” Roy said.
“What does?”
“Problems I’m dealing with. We got rid of the pain pills, and now every third skel who comes in is hooked on heroin. And the girls. For every one I get off the street I see two more the next night. And they’re hooked too. And meanwhile . . .”
I waited.
“Meanwhile, the city’s exploding with growth. It’s gone from Cowtown to Boomtown since I got out of college.”
“Your point?”
He smiled sadly. “Bright lights, big city, up there.” He pointed vaguely north. “Needle tracks, no hope, down here.”
“You sure know how to show a guy a good time,” I said.
“You remember Theresa?”
“Ex-hooker who helped me out with the missing laptop case. Hard to forget.”
“That’s former human trafficking victim to you. She’s my last employee. Helluva worker. But even she’s threatening to quit.”
“For what?”
“Second shift at White Castle.”
We both took a couple more drinks. Roy asked me about the job I was doing that night.
When I finished, he said, “You’re picking this guy up, but you don’t know where you’re going or who he’s meeting?”
“That’s about it.”
“A little loosey-goosey, even by your standards. Do you trust him?”
“Not a question of trust. I’m supposed to keep him safe. If I don’t like the setup, I’ll exercise veto power.”
“What about the First Amendment?”
I shrugged. “I could give a shit about his story, if that’s what you mean. That’s not my job.”
After a couple more minutes of conversation I excused myself to use the restroom. When I came back Roy was gone. I looked around. The bartender nodded toward the door. I finished my beer, thinking it seemed odd for him to leave like that. But a minute later he came back inside.
“This girl came in and said she’d clipped an Odyssey. Sounded like yours. She was in a rush for someone to see so I went out. Couldn’t find any damage.”
“Said she hit my van?”
He nodded.
“Where is she?”
“Took off, once it checked out. She seemed upset.”
“Crap. OK. I better look at it.”
I tugged at my wallet, but Roy stopped me.
“On me. Appreciate you listening. Even though you’re still drinking swill. Black Label? Jesus.”
“Some people have comfort food. I have comfort swill. Though had I known you were buying, I would have traded up to PBR.”
Roy left money on the bar and we walked out together. I made two trips around my van but couldn’t see any problems.
“Lucky,” Roy said.
“I guess.”
“Maybe I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said.
“Sounds good. Hey, wait a second.”
“Yeah?”
“You got a favorite science fiction novel?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“It’s kind of a marital aid.”
“Despite the fact you’re not married.”
“Humor me.”
He reflected. “Three of them, actually. A trilogy, by C. S. Lewis.”
“The Chronicles of Narnia guy?”
He nodded. I pulled a notebook out of my sports coat pocket. “Shoot.”
“Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, and, ah, That Hideous Strength. Last one’s probably my favorite.”
“What are they about?”
“Earth, Mars, Venus, allegories of good and bad. How long do you have?”
“Not that long.”
We shook hands and I watched him walk down the street to his car. I checked the time and saw I still had a few minutes before I had to leave to pick up Hershey. I got into the van and put the key in the ignition. And that’s when it hit me. A wave of exhaustion, like heat stroke or one too many bench presses after too many hours at the gym, but all at once, rapidly flooding my limbs. Any desire I’d had to work that night evaporated. I tried to focus, but my eyes were blurring uncontrollably. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was sleep. Something was wrong. I’d only had two beers, and on a full stomach. And swill, at that. I shouldn’t be so tired. But I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I struggled, tried to make out Roy. The only thing I saw were taillights pulling away. I tried reaching for my phone but couldn’t seem to find my pocket. Then I saw nothing but shadows. Then nothing but black.