Festival of Deaths(50)

Bennis was standing next to him in the foyer of their building when the limousine drove up. When it was safely parked at the curb, she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out on the stoop.

“Let’s go,” she said, “before you lose your nerve.”

“Where’s Tibor?”

“He’ll be here in a minute.”

From the stoop, Gregor could see down Cavanaugh Street to Holy Trinity Church fairly clearly, in spite of the fact that there was a slight fog. As he watched, Tibor came out of the alley at the church’s side that led to the rectory apartment at the back and came toward them at a brisk trot, the hem of his cassock waving. Gregor wondered what he was going to make the viewing public think of when the camera panned The Lotte Goldman Show studio audience. Of course, Tibor wasn’t going to be the only clergyman present or even the only one in uniform. Gregor had laid down a few rules about this television appearance of his. One of them was that there had to be a reasonable number of people in the audience who were on his side. Rabbi David Goldman had promised to be there (in mufti). So had Father Ryan (in a Roman collar) and Father Yorgos Stephanopoulos (in full Greek Orthodox regalia). Gregor harbored the secret hope that all Lotte Goldman’s planning would come to naught, the show he was supposed to be on would collapse, and what they would tape today would be a full hour of Lotte asking the priests about the sexual repercussions of wearing funny clothes.

The driver got out of the limousine just as Tibor reached it. The driver looked first at Tibor and then at Gregor and then walked up to the stoop where Bennis was standing.

“How do you do,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Prescott Holloway.”

“Bennis Hannaford,” Bennis said.

“Father Tibor Kasparian,” Tibor said.

“I’m Gregor Demarkian,” Gregor said, and men wondered if it was customary in New York for limousine drivers to shake hands with the people they drove. Prescott Holloway looked like one of those men of whom it is said that they have “once seen better days.” Maybe he was just trying to maintain his old sense of self-respect in the day-to-day grind of a job that had to be very difficult on the ego.

Prescott Holloway was opening the street-side passenger door of his limousine and helping Bennis in.

Father Tibor climbed into the car after Bennis. Gregor followed Father Tibor, waving away Prescott Holloway’s offer of help.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ve gotten in and out of these things before.”

“There’s a television in this one,” Father Tibor said, as Gregor settled himself into the rumble seat, “but not a VCR as there was in the one Bennis rented last year. Do you think there is a difference because of that, in the amount of money the car costs to rent?”

Prescott Holloway was just sliding in behind the wheel. “Actually, this car isn’t rented. It belongs to The Lotte Goldman Show. We brought it down from New York.”

“Does the show usually bring its own limousine when it travels?” Gregor asked.

“It depends on where it’s traveling to,” Prescott Holloway told him. “We brought two down here to Philadelphia, because Dr. Goldman would rather drive than take a train and she hates small planes. And, of course, if we drive we can do anything we want to the schedule, we don’t have to depend on somebody else’s departure times.”

“It still sounds expensive,” Bennis said.

“It’s only to cities that are close. Philadelphia, of course. And Boston when we go there. And places in New Jersey and Connecticut. After we leave Philadelphia this year, everybody but me is going to get on a plane. Next stop, Kansas City.”

“It’s too bad that you don’t get to go,” Bennis said.

Prescott Holloway shrugged. “I got as much travel as I ever wanted when I was in the army. When the show goes on the road like this, I get to play backup driver for Mr. Bart Gradon himself, which means I get paid a great deal of money to do practically no work. It’s a living.”

“I suppose it is,” Bennis said.

“Look at this,” Father Tibor said. “In the window of Lida Arkmanian’s front parlor. They are watching us.”

Bennis took out a cigarette and lit up. “Of course they’re watching us,” she said. “They’re all watching us. They probably set their alarm clocks to make sure they didn’t miss us when we went. I wish we’d go.”

“We’ll go,” Prescott Holloway said, shifting the limousine into gear.

That was the first Gregor realized that the car had not been turned off while it stood at the curb. Prescott Holloway had gotten out and handed his passengers in with the motor humming every minute. Surely that couldn’t be safe? Bennis took a long drag on her cigarette and tapped her ash into the little silver cup imbedded in the armrest.