Fires Rising Read Online Free Page A

crumbling face more obvious now that its demise was in order. The once-red bricks were faded and chipped, dusty gray innards showing like open sores. The facing of the public announcement board was shattered, the majority of its plastic letters lying on the sidewalk below like discarded cigarette butts. What had originally read I once was lost, but now I'm found, was blind but now I see now read new stud slut in a disconcerting stagger of letters: the simpleminded brainstorm of some moronic passerby.
    Pilazzo shook his head and adjusted his priest's collar as perspiration trickled its way beneath. Taking a deep breath and tasting the grit of cement and sawdust, he buried his hands in the pockets of his black trousers. "One hundred and fifteen years. What a crying shame."
    The foreman flattened his lips and narrowed his eyes in a struggle to feign compassion. He slid the hardhat back on his head, revealing a sweaty brow.
    He looks nervous , Pilazzo sensed. Why would he show nervousness? All he has to do is tear the church down, then build it back up, addressing the gluttonous ways of corporate America.
    "I've never been the religious type Father, but I can certainly relate to your disappointment. My wife and I had to give up our home after her company transferred her to New York last year. Toughest thing we'd ever had to do, especially with the kids going to a new school and all. Only recently have we begun to feel comfortable in our new surroundings."
    In the tree immediately behind Pilazzo, a troop of perched sparrows tossed their tuneful song into the air. "It's much harder than you can imagine. It's like watching my own parent being led into the execution chamber, as morbid as that sounds."
    The foreman smirked, making no clear effort to suppress his lack of compassion for Pilazzo's situation.
    Pilazzo shook his head. "With all due respect, Mr.…I'm sorry, what was your name again?"
    "Henry. Henry Miller."
    "Yes, Mr. Miller." He pointed to the edifice and jerked his wrist a half dozen times, as if bullets might start firing from his index finger." This church has been here since the turn of the century. It was built by our grandfathers, the priests and parishioners themselves, back in 1892. Every column, every pew, every sliver of stained glass, paid for, manufactured, and erected by the hands of those who worshipped and lived in its walls. There's a history here that could never be duplicated. And now corporate America has brought its fist down hard on one of the few truly historical catholic components this city still has to offer. It's a terrible disgrace, Mr. Miller, an injustice to the catholic religion."
    Henry Miller's eyebrows furrowed above a deadpan face, marking his disinterest in Pilazzo's plight. "I don't disagree with you, Father. But I have a job to do here, ya know?"
    Pilazzo continued, the words spilling from his mouth ungoverned: "What took our forefathers a year to build, will take your crew a couple of days to tear down. A few months from now, in this thirty foot wedge of space between office building number one and office building number two, office building number three will stand with the money-hungry lawyers resting comfortably in the top floor, overseeing the contracts between the foam-jawed landlords and their kennel of leasers. It's all about the money, and nothing more." He paused, swallowed past the grit in his throat and added, "No one cares about God anymore."
    Miller aimed his dark eyes toward the dusty sidewalk. Lunch-hour pedestrians paced busily along the curb, clear of the construction tape, oblivious to the fact—and not really caring—that a hundred and fifteen year-old church was about to be torn down.
    Pilazzo brushed by him and stepped across the sidewalk toward the five steps leading up into the church. He placed his right foot on the bottom step and stared into the darkness beyond the open half of the twin doors.
    A breeze sprung up, carrying with it a cloud of dust that circled