American Savior Read Online Free PDF Page B

situation. I need you to quit your job, and get Zelda to quit hers. As soon as possible.”
    So I understood from the get-go that the guy was, as we used to say, “soft.” But I didn’t want to leave without having my lasagna, and the weather was lousy, so, without missing a beat, and without giving much thought to how he knew about Zelda (anybody who can get your private phone number can find out the name of your girlfriend), I said, “I’m drafting my letter of resignation even as we speak.”
    His frown was not a pleasant thing to consider. “You have an unfortunate attraction to sarcasm,” he said. “It is a way of keeping people at a distance—you know that, of course.”
    “Oh, my apologies.” I took a sip of the cappuccino and wiped my upper lip. “Look, you call me on my private line with some half-ass story,get me up here on a day like this, then tell me to quit my job, and get my girlfriend to quit hers. And I’m supposed to say what? Thank you?”
    “Sorry,” he said, but it sounded nothing like an apology. “I thought you would have understood by now.”
    “Well, compared to people like you, I guess I’m a little slow.”
    The man who called himself Jesus sat back in his chair and gave me a smile of genuine amusement. “You are somewhat cynical,” he said. “Which is a manifestation of fear.”
    “Is that so?”
    “Yes, it is so. And cynical is the persona you give off on the screen. Yet you never connect it to the fact that you are still a roving reporter after eight years, while a lot of the others who finished school in your class have moved on to the anchor desk in various parts of the country.”
    “I’m doing fine, thanks,” I lied, but I could tell he wasn’t buying it.
    The waitress came and put our plates in front of us. Jesus looked her in the eyes when he said “Thank you,” which is something my father taught me to do a long time ago, “a sign that you have class,” he liked to say.
    “Not to worry, though. I can use a cynical, scared, ambitious person in my operation.”
    “You’re off your meds,” I said, reaching for my fork. “Why don’t you go and find someone else to insult. I’ll pick up the tab here, and we can just agree we’re not good lunch companions.”
    “You shall be well taken care of. As will Zelda.”
    “Why don’t we back up a step?” I suggested, after the first bite of salad, though I had pretty much stopped caring what he said by then. I wanted to finish my meal and leave, and if the guy trailed me I was going to have him arrested for stalking and not lose any sleep over it either. “Who the hell are you?”
    “Jesus Christ.”
    “And what do you do?”
    “It is widely known what I do, and have done. You have reported on a couple of my doings in the past month.”
    I considered this, chewed, swallowed, looked at him. One thing aboutthe business I’m in, a thing that’s equal parts bothersome and intriguing, is that you come face to face with the limitless manifestations of the human animal. You get to meet people like Alba Seunier, devoting their lives to comforting sick kids, and people like Ada Montpelier’s boyfriend, breaking fire escapes in the hope it will win him a legal settlement so he’ll never have to work again. And then there were people like my new pal, Hay-Zeus, who inhabited a level of insanity most people found frightening to contemplate. The whole thing seemed clear to me at the time: he had watched my reports on the Ada Montpelier scamola, and the Amelia Simmelton recovery, and had come to the delusional conclusion that he was the man I was talking about, the mythical savior and healer. The Messiah.
    Having grown up in the circumstances I’d grown up in (tough neighborhood, middleweight boxer for a dad), and having made a bad marriage at an early age into a family of the mentally disturbed, I was not intimidated by sociopaths. Whatever my other flaws and failings, I have a measure of physical courage. As I ate,