Page 2 of If Looks Could Kill
Jesus smiles and loves me too.
Pearl is, of course, the soprano. But: our voices blend nicely, and the music always is, in its way, its own reward. A few of the patrons of O’Flynn’s closed their eyes to listen.
The chorus ended. The sullen stares wore on, and I wanted to die, but Pearl’s cheeks flushed red with triumph. She was doing heroic work. A true soldier in God’s army.
She held a handful of copies ofThe War Cry, the Salvation Army’s gospel newsletter, high, like Lady Liberty with her torch. “Who will buy a copy ofThe War Cry?” she asked the room. “It’ll be the best penny you’ll ever spend. The one thatchanges your life forever.”
No one wanted a copy ofThe War Cry.
She looked about the room expectantly.
No one wanted a copy ofThe War Cry.
She gave her papers a flourish like a baton. Splendid wrist action.
Strangely, still, no one wanted a copy ofThe War Cry.
I cleared my throat. “It has a very interesting article in it,” I said, feeling I ought to make an attempt, “about a man who got a raise in pay after he turned his life over to the Lord.”
A few coughs ensued, some waggling eyebrows from the barkeep, some shifting and pawing through pockets. Pearl sold five copies ofThe War Cryand collected her pennies.
Bald Ronnie rolled the paper into a tube. “See here,” he said, “what’s in this thing?”
“The latest bulletins from the battlefield,” Pearl told him.
He scratched his nose. “You mean, that war in Africa?”
“The war for souls.” She was enjoying herself, and oddly, so were the men at the bar.
“Anything in it about the election?” asked the young bartender.
“Everything you need to know,” she said, “about blessings poured out upon God’select.”
“?‘Elect’!” crowed Ronnie. “She’s got you there, Mike.” The bartender, evidently Mike, grinned good-naturedly and dried another mug with his towel.
“Got any fighting news in it?” asked a huge fellow, getting in on the spirit of the thing. His build and mashed nose suggested a side career in basement boxing.
“Absolutely,” declared Pearl. “Every detail of the fight to win souls for the Lord.”
Now is not the time, I had to remind myself, to slink out of the room.
I sidled over to the bar and extended a hand to the barkeeper. “I’m Tabitha,” I whispered. “We might as well get acquainted.”
He grinned again. “Mike.”
“I know,” I said. “I mean, I heard.”
“Spying on me, eh?” He dried his hand on the towel at his waist and thrust it at me. “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of you two, now, won’t we?”
I smiled in spite of myself. The voice. “Probably.”
He waved the mug he was drying in Pearl’s direction. “Who’s your friend?”
She’s not my friend. “Pearl.”
A fellow seated nearby chimed in. “Like the song. ‘Poil, the Goil with the Coils.’?”
I will never get used to these New York accents.
