Holy Ghost (Virgil Flowers #11)(2)

“Good,” Holland said. And, “Why don’t you open the door and let a couple more flies in? I’m running out of game, and that big bastard’s hiding.”

“There was some Mexicans coming out of the church,” Skinner continued. “They’re meeting there on Wednesday nights. Praying and shit.”

“I know that,” Holland said. He was distracted as the bull bluebottle hove into view. He lifted the rifle.

Skinner said, “Honest to God, Holland, you shoot that rifle, I’m gonna take this fuckin’ can of beer and I’m gonna sink it in your fuckin’ forehead. Put that rifle down and listen to what I’m saying.”

The fly reversed itself and disappeared, and Holland took the rifle down. “You were walking by the Catholic church . . .”

The church had been all but abandoned by the archdiocese. Not enough Catholics to keep it going and not enough local hippies to buy it as a dance studio or enough prostitutes to buy it as a massage parlor. There was a packing plant forty miles down the Interstate, though, with lots of Mexican workers, and the housing was cheap enough in Wheatfield that it had lately attracted two dozen of the larger Mexican families.

The diocese had given a key to the church to a representative of the Wheatfield Mexicans, who were doing a bit to maintain it and to pay the liability insurance. Every once in a while, a Spanish-speaking priest from Minneapolis would drop by to say a Mass.

Skinner: “I got to thinking . . .”

“Man, that always makes me nervous,” Holland said. “Know what I’m saying?”

“What I thought of was, how to make Wheatfield the busiest town on the prairie. Big money for everybody. For a long time. We could get a cut ourselves, if we could buy out Henry Morganstat. Could we get a mortgage, you think?”

Holland sighed. “I got no idea how a seventeen-year-old high school kid could be so full of shit as you are. A hundred and sixty pounds of shit in a twelve-pound bag. So tell me, then finish your beer and go away and leave me with my fly.”

Skinner told him.



* * *



—

Holland had nothing to say for a long time. He just stared across the space between them. Then he finally said, “Jesus Christ, that could work, J.J. You say it’d cost six hundred dollars? I mean, I got six hundred dollars. I’d have to look some stuff up on the internet. And that thing about buying out Henry . . . I think he’d take twenty grand for the place. I got the GI Bill and my mother would probably loan me enough for the rest—at nine percent, the miserable bitch—but . . . Jesus Christ . . .”

“I’d want a piece of the action,” Skinner said.

“Well, of course. You came up with the idea, I’ll come up with the money. We go fifty-fifty,” Holland said.

“That’s good. I’d hate to get everything in place and then have to blackmail you for my share,” Skinner said.

Holland’s eyes narrowed: “We gotta talk to some guys . . .”

Skinner said, “We can’t talk to any guys. This is you and me . . . If we . . .” He realized that Holland’s eyes were tracking past him and he turned and saw the fly headed back to the kitchen. “Goddamnit, Holland, look at me. We’re talking here about saving the town. Making big money, too.”

Holland said, “We’ll have to tell at least one more person. We need a woman.”

Skinner scratched his nose. “Yeah, I thought of that. There’s Jennie. She can keep her mouth shut.”

“You still nailin’ her?”

“From time to time, yeah, when Larry isn’t around.”

“You know, you’re gonna knock her up sooner or later,” Holland said. “She’s ripe as a plum, and I’d guess her baby clock is about to go off. What is she anyway, thirty-three? When that red-haired bun pops outta the oven, you best be on a Greyhound to Hawaii.”

“Yeah, yeah, maybe, but she’d do this, and she’d be perfect. Who else would we get anyway?”

“I dunno, I . . .”

The fly tracked around the room again, and Holland said, “Shhhh . . . he’s gonna land.” He lifted the rifle and pointed it over Skinner’s shoulder toward the sink. Skinner lurched forward onto the floor to get down and out of the way as Holland pulled the trigger.

The fly disappeared in a puff of guts and broken wings.

Holland looked down at Skinner and whispered, “Got him. It’s like . . . It’s like some kinda sign.”





2


Five months later, Mayor Wardell Holland told Virgil Flowers that there weren’t any available motel rooms in Wheatfield, and not even over in Blue Earth, down I-90. He’d checked. “Your best bet is Mankato. It’s an hour away.”

“I live in Mankato,” Virgil said. “That’s my best shot?”

“Well, we’ve only got one operating motel, the Tarweveld Inn. It’s booked solid five months out, with a waiting list. There’s a Motel 6 coming online in a couple of months, but that won’t help. You need to get down here. And, I mean, right now. Today!”

“I didn’t know things were that tight,” Virgil said. “I can do it, but it’ll be a pain in the ass driving back and forth every day.”

“Okay, had a thought,” Holland said. “Let me make a call—gimme ten minutes.”