Come Sunday Morning. Terry E. Hill

“A gay rumor surfaces about Hezekiah every few years but no one has ever proved anything.”

      “I know, Kenneth. I’ve heard them too, but…but it was the way he reacted when Lance said it. I’ve never seen him that angry before. He snapped. I thought he was going to attack him. It was horrible.”

      “So what makes you think he can prove it? Did he identify his source?”

      “No. Pastor Cleaveland didn’t give him a chance to. He exploded and threw him out. Lance would have never confronted him the way he did unless he knew something. He was so cocky and bold.”

      Kenneth stood and walked abruptly to the door.

      “I’m going to call Savage. We’ll sue that paper for slander if they print the story, even if it is true.”

      Catherine sprang from her desk. She grabbed Kenneth by the arm as he reached for the door handle. “Kenneth,” she said through tears, “you said you wouldn’t repeat this to anyone. You promised.”

      Kenneth pushed her away. The force of his thrust, and the alcohol, caused her to lose her footing and stumble backward.

      “You’re crazy, Catherine, if you think I’m going to sit by and allow Lance Savage to destroy this ministry.”

      “You bastard,” Catherine said as the reverend darted down the hallway. “You liar. You’re going to make him even angrier. Stay out of this, Kenneth.”

      Her words echoed without reception, through the hall as Reverend Davis vanished from sight.

      6

      Monday Afternoon

      Fortunately for Hezekiah, the protest on the grounds had ended before he left the church. A group of smiling tourists stopped him and requested photos with him as he walked through the first-floor lobby.

      Always gracious to visitors, he shook their hands and posed for pictures. Hezekiah spoke kindly to the small group. “You should all move to Los Angeles,” he said. “We could use more dedicated Christians like you in our city.”

      The group laughed and snapped more pictures as he walked through the doors.

      It was a crisp clear day in the city. The grounds were now filled with office workers from the surrounding buildings leisurely reading newspapers and eating homemade lunches.

      Dino Goodman stood next to the black Lincoln at the foot of the church steps. He was to drive Hezekiah to his standing Monday lunch with three of his oldest friends.

      Dino was perfectly suited for the roles of muscular bodyguard, driver, and loyal keeper of all things secret. His brown trench coat wafted in the breeze, revealing a revolver nestled in a leather shoulder holster as Hezekiah approached.

      Dino was the one person in the church who consistently saw the vulnerable Hezekiah Cleaveland from the unobstructed vantage of his rearview mirror. What would have shocked his flock the most were the countless hours Dino had spent late at night waiting in the limo outside the old converted Victorian in the Adams District.

      Hezekiah was already ten minutes late when they arrived at the restaurant. It had taken him more energy than expected to recover from the confrontation with Lance Savage. His hand shook as he steadied himself to step from the rear of the car.

      He heard a man yell out as he walked to the entrance, “Hey, it’s Hezekiah Cleaveland!”

      Hezekiah looked to his right and saw a wiry little black man with disheveled hair approaching. He wore ragged pants and walked with a limp.

      Hezekiah waved, hoping the gesture would provide ample fodder for the little man to recount future stories of “the day I met Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland.”

      The tattered man was not satisfied. Dino saw the rapid pace at which he advanced and stepped in front of the man.

      “Hey, Pastor Cleaveland!” the man blurted out as he tried in vain to walk around Dino. “You ought to be helping poor people in this city instead of building that megachurch.”

      A lengthy barrage of insults from the scraggly man caused Hezekiah to halt in his tracks. He placed his hand firmly on Dino’s shoulder and moved him to one side allowing the little man clear passage and said, “Maybe you should go back to wherever it is you came from?” With that, Hezekiah took a one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and threw it at the stunned man’s feet. “That should be enough for a bus ticket out of town.”

      The little vagrant stood speechless as Hezekiah disappeared through the restaurant door.

      Hezekiah’s first inclination had been to cancel the lunch with his three buddies. After anguished deliberation, he decided to meet with them to learn just how far rumors of his affair had spread.

      Franco, the maître d’ at Petro’s Steak House, greeted his most famous customer. “Pastor Cleaveland,” he said, “good to see you, sir. Your party is waiting for you at your usual booth.”

      Faded black-and-white photographs of famous Los Angeles athletes covered the walls of the dimly lit room. Booths with seating covered in cracking red vinyl were occupied by lawyers, construction workers, and every occupation in between. Dishes clanked and waiters moved through the room in a frenzied blur balancing trays piled with steaming dishes.

      Rev. Jonathon Copperfield, a ruddy-faced pastor from Anaheim, was the first to see Hezekiah walking to the table. Hector Ramirez, the mayor of Los Angeles, was sitting next to him, and Phillip Thornton, the owner of the Los Angeles Chronicle, sat across the table.

      All three men were natives of the city. If there was a secret worth telling in Los Angeles, one, if not all, of these men knew it.

      Hezekiah was immediately struck by the absence of boisterous chatter that normally greeted him.

      “Hello, gentlemen,” he said as he placed a linen napkin on his lap. “What’s going on here? Who died?”

      The three men exchanged momentary glances. Jonathon Copperfield was the first to speak.

      “Nobody died, Hezekiah. We were just talking about some gossip Phillip heard last week.”

      “All right, boys. Who’s going to fill me in, or are we just going to change the subject to one you feel won’t offend my delicate sensibilities?”

      A heavyset waiter wearing a black vest, which barely concealed his bulging belly, came to the table and handed Hezekiah a menu.

      “Good afternoon, Pastor Cleaveland,” he said jovially in a thick Italian accent. “Will you be having your usual or would you like to try something different today?”

      Hezekiah placed his order and the waiter left the table.

      “All right, Phillip,” Hezekiah said. “Who’s trying to screw me over now? Come on, spill it.”

      Phillip drank the last of his red wine.

      “It’s not about who’s screwing you, Hezekiah,” he said. “It’s more about who it is you’re screwing.”

      Hezekiah sat silent. There was a hush at the table when the waiter returned with a basket of steaming bread.

      “I’ll have another drink, Luigi,” Phillip said as the waiter walked away.

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hezekiah said.

      “Come on, Hezekiah,” Hector said. “You know what this is about. Don’t try to bullshit us. We’ve known each other too long for that. We all get our share of pussy in this town.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “But a man? That’s just sick. This country will never tolerate a faggot as the pastor of one of its largest churches.”

      Hezekiah looked to the source of the information. “Phillip, this is all a lie. It’s Lance Savage at your newspaper. He’s been trying to dig something up on me ever since I broke ground on the new cathedral.”

      “You