Title:Fire Sale (V.I. Warshawski Novels)
Author(s): Sara Paretsky
Publisher(s): Signet Books
Pages: 544
Year: 2006
Format: PDF
Language: English
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Your love pours down on us constantly and as its proof, You sent us Your darling Son as a precious gift to bring us close to You.” Pastor
Andr?s’s public voice was deep and rumbly; with the mike overamplifying him, and the faint Hispanic accent, he was hard to understand. At first I strained to follow him, but now my attention wandered.
When Andr?s first came into the meeting room with Billy the Kid, I’d been startled enough to wake up for a moment: the pastor was the man I’d bumped into yesterday
morning at Fly the Flag—the one who wondered if I were drunk at nine in the morning. His church, Mt. Ararat Church of Holiness in Zion, was where Rose Dorrado and her children worshiped. I knew the ministers at these fundamentalist
churches wielded tremendous authority in the lives of their congregations; maybe Rose had confided her fears about sabotage to Andr?s. And maybe, in turn, Andr?s
had persuaded the plant owner to explain why he wouldn’t bring in the cops to investigate the sabotage.
It wasn’t possible to squeeze past all the people between me and the front of the room to talk to him before the service; I’d intercept him on his way out at the end. If the service ever did end. Every now and then, what seemed to be an approaching climax jerked me briefly awake, but the pastor’s deep voice and accent were a perfect lullaby, and I would drift off again.
“With Your Son, You show us the way and the truth and the light, with Him at our head we will move through all life’s obstacles to that glorious place where we will know no obstacles, no grief, where You will wipe away all our tears.”
Nearby, other heads were nodding, or eyes shifting to wristwatches, the way we used surreptitiously to peek at each other’s test papers in high school, all the time imagining
no one could tell our eyes weren’t glued to our own desktops.
In the front row, Aunt Jacqui had her hands folded piously
in prayer, but I caught a glimpse of her thumbs moving
on some handheld device. Today, she was wearing a severe black dress that didn’t quite match the evangelical mood of the meeting, despite its color: it was cinched tightly to show off her slim waist, and the buttons down the front ended around her thighs, allowing me to see that the design on her panty hose went all the way up her legs.
Next to me Marcena was sleeping in earnest, her breath coming in quiet little puffs, but her head bobbed forward as if she were nodding in prayer—no doubt a skill she’d learned at her fancy girls’ school in England.
When we’d left Morrell’s condo at six-thirty, her face was gray and drawn; she’d slumped in the passenger seat, groaning. “I can’t believe I’m going to chapel at dawn after three hours’ sleep. This is like being back at Queen Mar-garet’s, trying to make the headmistress believe I hadn’t crept into hall after hours. Wake me when we’re ten minutes
from By-Smart so I can put on my face.”
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