Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 09 Read Online Free Page A

“We can seat a thousand worshipers on benches, and another two hundred on folding chairs at the back if necessary. Our stage and equipment take up nearly eight hundred square feet, but we’re hardly an old-fashioned tent show making its way around the salvation circuit. People are too sophisticated these days to be satisfied with a single charismatic preacher and a dozen choir members. Our special-effects man used to work for rock bands out in California; he’s a real wizard when it comes to adding elements of drama to the service.”
    In front of us an enormous tent was rising as if it were a sienna mountain. Hydraulic winches were stationed at strategic corners, and cables thicker than my wrist strained as the tent poles inched skyward. Canvas sagged, then snapped into symmetrical lines. The workers barked orders at one another, but the exchanges were perfunctory (and vulgar, even by Maggody standards). Other workers walked unconcernedly beneath the listing poles, intent on their own assigned duties.
    “When do you bring out the clowns and elephants?” I asked.
    Fratelleon gave me a wry look. “There is a certain similarity, I must admit, but selling religion takes showmanship as well as a calling. Don’t make any stereotypic assumptions about Malachi until you meet him. You may be surprised.”
    “What about you, Mr. Fratelleon? Surely you haven’t done this all your life.”
    “I was an accountant in a large manufacturing firm for more than thirty-five years. When I neared retirement, the board of directors chose to discharge me rather than give me a gold watch and a pension. I found it impossible to find steady employment and was doing menial temp work when I met Malachi two years ago. His offer was too tempting to turn down.”
    “Peddling miracles,” I said.
    “I was earning no more than fifteen thousand dollars a year as a temp. Now I earn a hundred thousand in salary and bonuses. I live frugally and invest prudently, and should the future unfold as we envision it, I will retire in five years as a multimillionaire. That, Chief Hanks, is a miracle.” I was about to ask him for the name of his broker, when an olive-skinned young man in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black leather vest came over to us. His dark hair was combed back into a 1950s ducktail, and a pack of cigarettes bulged in a rolled-up sleeve that partially covered a tattoo. He obviously fancied himself as a latter-day James Dean-or a character from a production of Grease.
    “I’ve got to go into the nearest big town and find an electronics store,” he said to Fratelleon. “A fuse blew in the dimming-control panel. I was gonna take my bike, but if you want me to pick up other stuff as long as I’m there, I’ll take one of the cars.”
    “Miss Hanks, this is Joey Lerner, the special-effects wizard I was telling you about a minute ago. Joey works some amazing miracles through electronics.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” I said as I realized he’d been the black-clad motorcyclist in the caravan and that his bowed legs were not the result of years of riding the range. He had Harley-Davidson legs, as well as a cute derriere.
    “Me, too,” he said without interest, then looked back at Fratelleon. “So what do you want me to do, Thomas? I’d like to get the fuse right away so I can start fixing the panel.”
    “I haven’t spoken to Malachi since we arrived,” said Fratelleon. “If they need groceries or such, I shall send someone back to that supermarket we passed. Take whichever vehicle you prefer.”
    “Joey!” cried a girl as she came down the steps in front of the RV that purportedly housed Malachi Hope and his family. Waving frantically, she stumbled across the weeds, ducking under cables and barely avoiding collisions with the workmen. “Wait a minute!”
    “Shit,” hissed Joey. Fratelleon looked no more pleased then he, but settled for a sigh.
    I studied her curiously as she neared us. She was in her middle teens, with