The Apostle. J. Kerley A.

thirty-plus-hour stints, catching sleep on a tucked-away gurney. Between the haphazard hours of our jobs, we managed to see one another about twice a week, me generally staying with Viv in the city.

      “Got a case I need to hit hard in the early a.m. You don’t want details. You off tomorrow night?”

      It seemed tomorrow would work out fine and I drove to Viv’s home, a lovely two-story in Coral Gables, the walls’ white expanses broken by vibrant art and photography. When we’d began dating, I’d figured her home shone with so much life because her work held so much death.

      I started to pull the case files again, but their horror seemed discordant in Viv’s home, so I mixed a drink and reviewed them beneath a lamp in the back yard, nothing above but the lonely stars, which I figured had seen it all before.

       4

      Harry Nautilus was half-reclined on his couch and listening to a YouTube upload of a performance by jazz great Billie Holiday and thinking her voice was a trumpet, the words not sung as much blown through that life-ravaged throat, some notes low and growled, others bright as a bell on a crisp winter morning.

      Fifteen years ago, give or take, Nautilus had sat in this same room with a half-baked man-child named Carson Ryder when the kid had asked Nautilus why he listened to “all that old music”. Nautilus had dosed the kid with Waller, Beiderbecke, Armstrong, Ellington, Holiday, Henderson … they started at sundown and met the morning with Miles.

      Along with the intro to jazz, Nautilus convinced the kid his degree in Psychology and eerie ability to analyze madmen would be a gift to law enforcement. The next week Carson Ryder signed up at the Police Academy, blowing through it like a firestorm, impressing many, pissing off as many more. He’d put in three years on the street before solving the high-profile Adrian case, advancing to detective and Nautilus’s partner. They’d been the Ryder and Nautilus Show for over a decade. But today Carson was in Florida and Harry Nautilus was a retiree.

      The show was over.

      And tomorrow morning, Harry Nautilus was going to the home of Pastor Richard Owsley to meet the man’s wife and try for a gig as a driver. Last week’s interview with the Pastor had taken all of fifteen minutes, the man like a thousand-watt bulb in a room that only needs about a hundred, pacing, smiling, gesturing … all assurance and zeal and – like Southern preachers everywhere – stretching one-syllable words into two and often using larger words than called for, which Nautilus ascribed to latent insecurities perhaps caused by going to schools like West Doodlemont Bible College rather than Harvard Divinity School.

      It had all happened so quickly that Nautilus realized he knew little more about Richard Owsley than the stacks of books he saw at local shops, the man smiling on the cover with bible in hand.

      He took another sip of brew, set his computer on his lap, and checked YouTube for the Pastor’s name. There were several dozen hits, sermons, it seemed. In his youth Nautilus had been dragged from church to church by a procession of severe but well-meaning aunts, and figured he’d had enough sermonizing for a lifetime. He continued scanning the videos until he found a six-minute piece titled, Highlights: Richard Owsley on Willy Prince Show. Prince had a talk show out of Montgomery and was a regional favorite, a smug little fellow in his forties with shaggy, fringe-centric hair, and a slight mouth permanently puckered toward sneer.

      Nautilus hit Play and the screen showed two men sitting at a round table in a television studio dressed with a pair of bookshelves and artificial plants. Nautilus figured someone once told Prince that slouching would make him look more like William F. Buckley, so he resembled a boneless puppet dropped into a chair. Prince sat on the left and was speaking.

      “… then to recap, Reverend Owsley, you hold that Jesus wants people to have fine cars, boats, luxury items?”

      Pastor Owsley was to the right, a dark-suited figure with narrow shoulders and a touch too much weight at his waistline, slightly pearish. His round and cherubic visage was topped by back-combed black hair. He looked pleasant and not particularly commanding, a small-town insurance salesman whose ready smile is part of the tool kit.

      “Jesus wants people to enjoy abundance, Willy,” Owsley said in a Southern-inflected tenor and pronouncing the word in three distinct syllables, a-bun-dance. “In biblical times, abundance might mean having a donkey, chickens and a warm hearth. Today, it might be a new pickup truck and a house with a white picket fence.”

      A chorus of handclaps and Hallelujahs from the audience. A raised eyebrow from Prince.

      “Or a Mercedes-Benz and a mansion in Miami Beach?”

      “If that is your yearning and you honor God, God will hand you the keys to the Benz, the keys to the mansion and then, finally and best of all, the keys to His Kingdom. It’s in John 10:10: ‘There I am come that they might have life, and they might have it more abundantly.’”

      The audience again expressed satisfaction with the answer. “Perhaps the abundance comes in the afterlife, Reverend,” Prince said. “In Paradise.”

      Owsley nodded vigorous agreement. “Our prosperity in Heaven is boundless, Willy. We’re also supposed to taste of it in this life. Proverbs 15:6 … ‘In the house of the righteous is much treasure.’ Then there’s John 1:2 … ‘Beloved, I wish above all that thou prosper and be in health, even as thy soul prospers.’ When your soul prospers, so shall you.”

      “So why did Jesus hang around with poor people, Pastor Owsley? I mean, Jesus wasn’t prone to spending his days with the wealthy, right?”

      “Of course not, Willy. He treasured the poor.”

      “But you just said—”

      “Jesus Christ loves the faithful, Willy. If you have ten billion dollars and believeth not in the Lord, you are as poor as a cockroach. Conversely, if you have nothing and turn yourself over to the Lord, you have wealth beyond measure.”

      “But you’re still poor, pocket-wise.”

      “‘Keep therefore the words of this covenant, and do them, that ye may prosper in all that ye do.’ That’s Deuteronomy 29:9. It’s said even more directly in Proverbs 28:20: ‘A faithful man shall abound in blessings.’ Do you know the Greek translation of the word ‘blessings’, Willy?”

      “Oddly enough, no.”

      Owsley’s pink hands came together in a thunderclap. “Happiness! Blessings are happinesses. God wants His faithful children to abound in happinesses. It’s a three-step process, Willy. One, surrender your soul to Christ. Two, cast your bread upon the water. Three, watch the bread returneth a thousand-fold.”

      A chorus of amens and hallelujahs. Prince studied the audience and turned to the preacher with an uplifted eyebrow. “You have a lot of followers here tonight, Reverend. Did you pack the crowd, as they say?”

      A split-second pause from Owsley, followed by who-me? innocence. “I noted on my website that I was to be a guest. That’s all.”

      “Really? I’d like to go to some video we took earlier in the day outside the studio, if that’s OK with you.”

      “It’s your show, Willy,” Owsley said. The smile stayed as toothy as a beaver, but Nautilus detected irritation as the screen behind the interview table filled with two large buses emptying to the pavement a block from the studio, an attractive woman with a haystack of blonde hair organizing the passengers into a queue.

      “All those folks went directly from the buses to the studio. I’ll ask again: Did you pack the crowd, Reverend?”

      Murmurs of irritation from the audience. Owsley replayed the innocent face. “All I can say, Willy, is that I’m delighted so many faithful Christians chose to honor me with their presence.”

      Applause. Whistles. Amens.

      Prince