A couple of them were probably ex-military. Father Gilmore had talked to Clay before about some sort of outreach to the local homeless vets, to give them some idea what services were available to them. Clay had dodged it every time so far.
What the fuck was he going to say? Clay hadn’t exactly come back Stateside and made civilian society his bitch. He’d no idea how some people made it work for them, how they went from mortars and machine gun fire to 2.4 kids and a nine-to-five job.
That particular weird mix of imposter syndrome and guilt wasn’t what Clay was here for, though. He gave a stiff nod of acknowledgment to one of the men who’d looked over—got the same back—and headed down the aisle to the front of the church.
He pulled a fifty out of his pocket for the collection box and picked up one of the little battery-operated candles to turn it on. It didn’t have quite the same feeling of ritual as a real candle, waxy against his hand, and the smoky sizzle of a freshly lit match, but that was a fire hazard, and these were cheaper.
Clay set the little light back in its holder. It flickered dimly. He didn’t know why he bothered. If he’d still believed in God, he’d not have done half the things he’d done. And nobody he knew who did would want Clay’s prayers. It just felt right. Like he’d let something go.
And if anyone was here to meet him, they could come and find him.
It took a minute, but finally someone stepped up next to Clay. The man was narrow and a bit shorter than Clay, in a button-down shirt and slacks. Clay didn’t know him, but something about him did look vaguely familiar. The man cleared his throat as he reached for one of the lights.
“Mr. Adams?” he asked.
“He couldn’t make it,” Clay said. “I’m his associate.”
The man fumbled with the plastic disc and nearly dropped it. He grabbed it with both hands and gave Clay a quick, suspicious look.
“How do I know that’s true?” he asked.
Clay sighed. “What the fuck do you think I’m going to do?” he asked. “Produce a letter of introduction? If I was lying, I’d have just told you I was Ezra. You’ve obviously got no fucking clue what he looks like.”
The man turned the candle over twice, as if he had never seen one before. He finally thumbed the switch on and set it back down to flicker.
“I was told to speak to Mr. Adams, no one else,” the man said. “He told our mutual friend that he’d meet me here.”
“His kid bit someone at daycare,” Clay said, “so he asked me to step in. I’d apologize, but if you’re here, then it looks like Judge Parker couldn’t make it either.”
The man clenched his jaw, muscles visible in knots under his skin, and glanced around quickly. There was no one close enough to overhear. Despite that, the man gave Clay a hard look.
“Keep her name out of your mouth,” he said stiffly. “And my employer can’t be seen to be associated with… dubious sorts… especially in the middle of an election. They need to keep as much deniability as possible. Can we go somewhere more private?”
Clay turned to look the man up and down. Then he pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows.
“You want to fuck?” he asked.
The man looked coldly angry for a moment. “You?” he said. “No.”
Clay grinned, slow and lazy, as he decided if he was pissed off or not. It wasn’t like he’d wanted Parker’s errand boy to jump on the offer, but still. Errand Boy had enough wit to look uncomfortable as Clay stared at him for a long, slow second.
“Then if you want, we can stay here,” Clay said. He tipped his head toward the empty front pew. “Or you can fuck off.”
He walked over to the pew and sat down, one arm slung over the wooden back of it. The nun’s disapproval across the aisle was palpable. After a moment, Errand Boy came over too. He sat stiffly upright, far enough away that the frayed cuff of Clay’s jacket didn’t touch him.
“What does Parker want?” he asked.
“I told you—” Errand Boy snapped.
Clay shifted slightly and dropped his hand on Errand Boy’s shoulder. He tightened his grip until the man squirmed, his mouth gone white at the corners.
“The only thing you tell me is what I ask you about,” Clay said. “Or I’ll break your collarbone.”
Errand Boy’s nostrils flared. “You wouldn’t dare,” he said. “There’s witnesses.”
“There are,” Clay agreed. “Nuns and all. After I break your collarbone, they’ll all run over to ask what happened. Then, like a good little boy, you’ll tell them what?”
“That you—” Errand Boy stopped as he heard his voice rise. He pressed his lips together and forced it back down to a hiss. “I’ll tell them you’re a pervert that hit on me and attacked me when I said no.”
