Good to Be God (22 page)

Suddenly, despite the pitiful flock and the light collection basket, it’s desirable. I wait for my congregation to gasp in indignation, or to jeer Iyambo. A few frowns as a minimum? No, they actually look as if they’re enjoying the floor show.

“I, Dr Liberius Iyambo, have come to show you the error of your ways. I have come to show you the true path and to save you from the pit.”

It’s more likely that my arse has a doctorate than Liberius. To be honest, I thought about titling up, but when you’re going for the top you can’t be bothered with worldly honorifics. Doctor this. Professor that. Field Marshal so-and-so.

“This man is a pawn of evil,” he elaborates, megapointing me again. The congregation isn’t buying into Iyambo yet, but they’re listening. You really are on your own.

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One thing I learnt from Bamford, though, was how to wrong-foot people. Smile. Say what the hearer wants to hear.

“I had no idea I was working for the wrong side,” I say. “But thank you, thank you so much for coming here to help me. That’s very noble of you. Why don’t we discuss this over a drink?”

“Can’t you smell the sulphuric emanations here?” Liberius can’t just stop, of course. He has the gab and harangues the congregation some more, he has a victory crow, but they, disappointed there has been no liturgical punch-up, disperse.

Leaving his disciples outside, I usher Liberius into the Hierophant’s office in a way he deems sufficiently submissive.

The Hierophant keeps a couple of bottles of Israeli wine. I offer Liberius a slug of this and, rather like the Hierophant, he is tickled by the notion of holy wine “as drunk by our Lord”. The wine is mouthwash in my opinion, which is rather useful.

“God does not love you,” he smiles. “God does not like you one little bit.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because there is something of Sodom about you. God will punish you soon. Very soon.” One doesn’t expect extravagant thanks for a glass of bad wine, but ready abuse is a bit much.

This is the thing about shouting and bullying: they work. They may require more effort, in terms of volume and front, than just saying hello, how are you – but they work. You have to find people who will respond to bullying and shouting, but whatever you’re selling, you have to find those who will buy. Not everyone wants coke, a Porsche or bullying.

Liberius shows me a photo of a gormless twink as I refill his glass. “You see this. This is Robert Caradec. One thousand and three hundred and twenty-six days in hell. This disgusting abominator has been in hell one thousand three hundred and 173

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twenty-six days. In hell, burning every hour. Do you know what eternity is, with one thousand three hundred and twenty-six days deducted?”

“No.”

“Eternity. God does not love everyone. He loves punishment.”

I have to say I’m impressed that even with an audience of one Liberius is giving it all he’s got. Hardcore.

“Among the many great things I have achieved, and the many great things I have achieved are many and great, so many that even I cannot remember them all, perhaps the greatest of all will be bringing true religion to this city,” Liberius says, high on his I, occasionally pausing to condemn me as a “reptile” or a “worthless reptile” or a “thrice worthless reptile”, undeserving of redemption.

He swigs the wine with the ease of a seasoned drinker and scoffs a packet of peanuts I had been saving for later.

“It’s my pleasure to meet the shredder called Queen Mary,” he mumbles only a few minutes later, slumping to his side. Liberius may well be able to hold his drink, but he certainly can’t handle the drug I’ve slipped into the wine. It’s a dangerous thing to do, but he’s a robust figure, and frankly I don’t give a toss. Living the law-abiding, non-drugging way has got me nowhere.

“Time consumers… are not all equal,” continues Liberius face down on the floor, as I strip and handcuff him.

Providence had provided me with a wide selection of date-rape drugs and some magazines of astonishing sickness. Gert had come in the day before, bleating, “I’m horrified by what I’m becoming.” Being horrified by what you’re becoming is one of the most common human experiences. He had come to ditch his rufies and stash of filth in a bid for salvation. I gave him all the unction I could, but there’s a problem with ditching your rufies and porn: you can always go out and buy some more tomorrow.

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I’m worried about Gert, although he insists he hasn’t done anything wrong. He just thinks about it all the time. I thought I’d seen it all, but even I was shocked by his stash. Some things are just plain bad for you. Cocaine. Absinthe. Images of torture.

Decency.

I go through Liberius’s pockets. He has a tragically small amount of money. There’s a notebook with handwritten prayers composed by Liberius: “Prayer for someone disappointed by public transport”. “Prayer when encountering difficulties with a can-opener”. “Prayer on finding it harder to climb a glacier than you thought it would be”. “Prayer for a poorly receiving television set”. “Prayer on being provoked by your lawn-mower”. “Prayer for when your pastor has been framed by his many enemies on completely spurious corruption charges”.

I may crash here, but I won’t go out a cipher ciphering, standing at the back quietly, hoping something will turn up. I phone Gamay.

“I’ve got a job.”

“It’s great to hear from you, Tyndale, it really is, but could we do this later? Someone must have spiked my drink last night because I’m really not up to speed—”

“Right now, and get Muscat.”

“We don’t need him. I can handle it. Imperative.”

“Okay. And bring some female underwear.”

Gamay will regret Muscat’s absence when he finds out what the job is.

I assess Liberius as an evangelist who won’t give up after one drugging and robbery. I don’t want to be one of two dogs fighting over an almost shiny bone. Even if he achieved nothing else, Liberius could be very noisy and unpleasant.

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Liberius’s disciples are waiting for him outside. They’re doormat folk, and would wait the whole day for Liberius. Poor-quality disciples, but disciples nevertheless. I’m envious.

“Liberius’s making a call. He asked me to tell you that you can go.”

The woman is perplexed. “But what about tomorrow?”

“He said to meet him at two.”

“Where?”

“The usual place.” They walk off reluctantly, constantly casting back glances in the hope that Liberius will appear and resummon them to his side. The rich get richer, the unhappy get unhappier.

As I predicted, when Gamay turns up, he’s shy about taking his clothes off, although I don’t know why since, whatever his spiritual and mental shortcomings, he’s in good shape physically.

“No way,” protests Gamay. “Imperative. This isn’t right.”

In order to remove Liberius from contention, I’m gambling on the one sin that is hard to dislodge from your halo. Whatever smorgasbord of evangelism Liberius is touting, buttock villainy is certainly out. Religions, while often being sniffy on the subject of ooohhh, are especially unforgiving on sodomy. You can stray in all sorts of ways and your flock will forgive you.

Spend the money earmarked for the needy on a sharp suit and you only have to look hangdog for a few weeks.

Verily, it could be argued that the traditional coke-n’-hookers fiasco that befalls nearly every preacher strengthens your position – having pulled yourself out of the mire of sin and fallibility, you can orate on it with more zest. You could rob an orphanage, shoot up a town, torch some churches, and even all that, after strenuous breast-beating, wouldn’t necessarily bar 176

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you from the pulpit. But the road back from shirt-lifting is a tough one.

“Tyndale, man, you don’t understand. I don’t want to do this.”

“Yes, I do understand. But consider this question. If you had a major, billion-dollar criminal organization would you make it easy or difficult for recruits to join? Easy or difficult?”

“Couldn’t you, like, kill him instead?” suggests Gamay. This is how it starts. I can understand that Gamay is not eager to simulate sex with a ripe, unappealing African missionary, but I’m still a little shocked; although I have to confess there is a part of me that’s receptive to the idea, if I could be sure Gamay could carry out the disposal without repercussions.

“You’re thinking like an amateur,” I reproach. “Why are you fussing? Your face won’t be in the shots.”

“But, Tyndale, I don’t want to do this.”

My phone rings.

“Why, hallo, Muscat, how are you?” I answer with exaggerated warmth. Gamay is now making frantic whatever-you-want gestures. “No, I haven’t seen him. I haven’t seen Gamay for a long time.”

I’ve always enjoyed photography. A black man in a cheap pink bra is a great composition. Naturally, the only thing worse than sinning, is sinning ridiculously. I enjoy the session, working in bottles of rum, white powder, a teddy bear and anything I can think of to heighten the turpitude and humiliation. I order Gamay to drive the still-blurry Liberius to Daytona, and dump him there with some printouts of the pictures. Florida is a big place. I’m confident Liberius will get the message.

“When am I getting some money for this shit?” Gamay moans.

“When I am going to get some disfrooting?”

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“Easy or difficult?” I remind him.

That evening Muscat phones me again. “I haven’t seen Gamay for a while. I don’t want to say anything bad about him.

I don’t want to say anything too clear, Tyndale, that might be misleading, but I caught him looking at a website for the DEA.

He could be ratting us out.”

G

One of my neighbours who used to be a spy told me how to get information. You go to the nearest bar. Or restaurant. Whether you’re targeting an office or a military base, there is always one relaxery where everyone gathers. Usually the nearest. There are a lot of things people don’t need, but everyone needs a drink, everyone needs to eat.

You never approach anyone. You get them to approach you.

You need a prop. According to my neighbour a small child or a dog is ideal for attracting people. “An infant-in-arms is the best tool a spy can have,” he said. Failing that some object that has visual weight, a guitar or a chess set, something that invites comment. I hang around outside the crematorium a few lunchtimes and I finally spot a group of three heading off to a kebab joint.

I enter five minutes later, carrying the most bizarre item I could find at Dishonest Dave’s, a stuffed gharial, an Indian crocodile that has a snout so preposterously thin that it looks like a pipe.

It’s a small one that fits comfortably under my arm.

The waitress refuses to acknowledge my gharial, and I order a classic shish. The three cremcrew are close by, unchatty in the way when you’re having lunch with the colleagues you work with all day and with whom you’ve had lunch every day 178

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for the last month. Sideways, they take in the gharial, but say nothing.

“Is that thing real?” The gharial is working, but not in the right direction.

Some retiree with too much time on his hands interrogates me about the gharial. I outline something about its habitat and the problems the species is facing. I don’t want to give away too much, because I want to save some gharial chat for the cremcrew and also because I don’t know much about the gharial. Without any invitation the old guy sits down next to me and natters about the python epidemic in the Everglades, former pets on the run. “Those suckers are loving it in there. They’re bigger than the alligators. They’re eating up all the alligators.” He rambles on for ten minutes without any encouragement from me.

I can see the cremcrew are finishing up. Patience, I think. No, too late for patience. “Could you pass me the ketchup?” I ask, pretending my bottle’s caked.

It’s enough. “You ain’t going to eat your pet, are you?”

We chat. They’re not in any rush to get back to work. Two of them leave. Man Three with a big beard is extremely relaxed about getting back to work. I explain I’m a salesman, laugh about fixing my expenses. “If I didn’t have that extra on the side, I just wouldn’t make it. Honesty just doesn’t pay.”

“It’s hard to get by,” he says. A skinny Chinese guy comes in proffering DVDs. My target frowns. “I know that guy isn’t getting rich, but it’s wrong.” I explain I’m new to the city, and does he know where I can score some dope.

He ices up and leaves immediately. A law-abiding man. It’s reassuring to learn they still exist. But it doesn’t help me.

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G

Dave calls me and says the Brazilian will meet us this evening.

I have nothing to do tomorrow so I agree to meet since I know we’ll end up burning the night right down.

We meet at an elegant bar, in a shitty area of North-Western Avenue. The waitress gives a squeal of pleasure as she recognizes Dave.

“You were right. You were right. How did you do that? Will you do it for my friend Amy?”

She returns with another waitress. Dave holds her hand, looks in her eyes and says “Jacques Higelin. Insane Clown Posse.

Graham Central Station.” The waitresses jump up and down in excitement.

We’re joined by eurotrashy Eric, who works for his father’s property-development business. Dave explains to Eric that vodou is nonsense. An hour later Dave is explaining to Avi and Macca, two stoners who work in a music store, that vodou is not to be trifled with, and that he once smoked so much dope he ate three light bulbs in a balsamic-vinegar dressing.

The bar looks more like a bar with Dave sitting in it. He should actually be paid for drinking in a bar. He’s a true night-rider. He rides the night, and at the end of it, it’s the night that’s exhausted, not him. He just climbs off and looks for something else to do.

“The Brazilian’s not coming, is he?” I remark after four hours.

“Shall we review the facts? He’s a lying, cheating butcher: a lying cheating butcher several extended families would like to kill. He is what you requested: a corrupt, unscrupulous, unfeeling, money-grabbing scalpel fiend. So it may be that he 180