Damage Control by John Gilstrap Page B

and crucifixion of Jesus, together defining the Stations of the Cross. Up ahead at the altar, the cross upon which a wrought-iron sculpture of the suffering Christ had been precariously mounted appeared to be hand-hewn of six-by-six lumber. It sat in what appeared to be a temporary support that had been nailed to the floor.
    “How dare you bring guns into the house of God?” a voice boomed in Spanish from somewhere behind the blinding sunlight.
    Also in Spanish, Jonathan answered, “I mean no harm. Please step out where I can see you.”
    “You know the agreement,” the voice said. “No guns inside the sanctuary.”
    There’s an agreement? Jonathan thought. He wondered who it might be with. “Are you Father Perón?”
    A few seconds passed before Jonathan heard footsteps approaching. “I do not recognize you,” the voice said.
    “That’s because I’ve never been here before.” Finally, the voice became a silhouette as its owner emerged from the backlight. He carried something long in his hands, and for an instant, Jonathan’s hand flinched toward his weapon. He stopped when he saw that the object was a candle lighter/snuffer that was nearly identical to the ones he’d used as an altar boy.
    The silhouette’s features emerged as a young man of perhaps thirty. His narrow face looked narrower still under the thick mane of black hair that hung nearly to his shoulders. He wore a red T-shirt and blue shorts with flip-flops.
    “No guns in my church,” he repeated.
    Jonathan extended his hand. “My name is Leon Harris,” he said. A lie in church.
    The young man looked at Jonathan’s hand, and then cast a glance over Jonathan’s shoulder, out to the door. “And who is that?”
    Jonathan knew without looking that Boxers had taken up a position in the jamb, scanning the yard for any trouble that might arise. “He’s a friend of mine. His name is Richard Lerner. Is Father Perón here?” Jonathan opened the door wider to cast more light on the man.
    “You are American,” the man said. “I can tell by your accent.”
    Jonathan felt disappointed. He’d thought his Spanish was flawless. “ Sí ,” he said.
    “ Federales Americanos ?”
    “No,” Jonathan assured. “I’m not military, and I’m not with the government. I’m just a private citizen in need of help.”
    The man took a second look at Boxers. “An American private citizen with many guns and a bodyguard.”
    “If I could speak with Father Perón, I—”
    “I am Father Perón,” the man said.
    Jonathan cocked his head. “Really?” as soon as the word left his throat, he knew that he’d insulted the man, but good Lord, he looked like a college student.
    “Loyola University,” Perón said in English. “I assure you that I look younger than I feel.”
    Jonathan felt himself blush. “I meant no offense.”
    “None was taken. Yet you still have guns in my church. I don’t allow that.”
    This was a tough spot for Jonathan. There’s a cliché that covers moments like this that involves the phrase, when you pry it from my cold dead fingers . He didn’t want it to come to that. “Can we sit for a minute?” he asked. “I think when I tell you what is happening, you’ll understand why I’m hesitant to give up my weapons.”
    Perón put his hands on his hips and considered the request. He nodded with his chin. “We’ll talk outside.”
     
     
    The note was written in a woman’s hand on a plain piece of white paper:
     
Dom,
Follow these directions precisely. Walk to the L’Enfant Plaza Metro. Take the Green Line to Fort Totten. Transfer to the Red Line and take it to Union Station. Go to the front of the building and find the chauffeur waiting for Fr. Carlino. He works for me and will take care of you. I’ll explain when we meet.
Best,
I
     
    Including the fifteen-minute delay in the beginning, and the long interval between trains at this time of day, it took nearly an hour to make his rendezvous with the chauffeur, who was