Free 2 Double Dip by Gretchen Archer

say.”
    “DO YOU SEE A LADIES ROOM ANYWHERE, DAVIS?”
    We found an elegant strip mall, complete with valet parking, that had a coffee shop, Bistro de Jesus. (“I’LL BE BACK IN A JIFFY.”) On one side of the coffee shop was a burger joint, Our Daily Burger , home of the heavenly burgers, and on the other side, a fancy steak house, Holy Cow.
    The next few blocks of Beehive were not as blatantly religious, but just as noticeably stylish. There were fancy banks, fancy topiary gardens everywhere, and a string of fancy mountain-stone buildings with arched stone breezeways connecting Beehive’s elementary to middle to high schools. Everything in Beehive was professionally manicured. We saw one gas station, and even it was pretty. We thought we’d reached the end of main street, which was God’s Boulevard here, having missed the church, when the road took a sudden sharp left and the church loomed before us in the distance like a divine palace.
    “Good God.” Fantasy hit the brakes.
    “Amen.”
    “PRAISE BE.”
    A vast parking lot circled the castle of a church like a concrete moat, and was sectioned off like Disney’s, segregated by reminders: Wisdom, Understanding, Counsel, Fortitude, Knowledge, Piety, Fear of the Lord (who’d park there?), and Daisy Duck (kidding).
    “I wonder if they tailgate,” Fantasy said.
    I turned to her. “We’re on the Polar Express and this is Holy Santa’s Village.”
    “IS THIS A NEW CASINO?”
    At least fifty SUVs filled several long rows of Fortitude. God’s staffers, it would seem, favored Lexus. We worked our way to the front, then drove through a massive stone archway leading to the main entrance, and, stupefied, read the sign.

    WELCOME TO THE
    SO HELP ME GOD
    PENTACOSTAL CHURCH
    MARION BEECHER, SENIOR PASTOR
    COME ONE, COME ALL
    “Beecher?” Fantasy turned to me.
    “ Beecher ?” I was dumfounded. “Isn’t that one of Peyton’s names?”
    “Holy crap.” Fantasy shook her head. “What is going on?”
    “WE GOT COMPANY.”
    A black, four-door sedan came out of nowhere and angled itself ten feet from Fantasy’s front right bumper. Another one pulled up behind us, counter, on the back left bumper of the Volvo. NFL linebackers (they had to be) exited the cars, two each, everyone wearing black, and surrounded us. One guy behind us, I could see in the side mirror, was poking on his phone, running our plates. Fantasy and I exchanged a quick look, mapping a plan. She put an elbow on the console between us, ready to snap it open should she need its loaded contents, and with her other long arm, reached over and pressed the button that lowered the driver window.
    “Gentlemen?” She smiled.
    “Ma’am,” one said. “Can we help you?”
    “We’re here to see God.” Fantasy nodded in the direction of the massive stone sanctuary.
    “He’s not in.” The man reached inside his jacket and I had to clamp down on Fantasy’s arm to keep her from shooting him. He pulled out a printed card, not a firearm, and held it in the open window. I let go of Fantasy’s arm. “Here’s a list of worship services, Ma’am. You’ll need to either call and make an appointment with one of our counselors, or come back during one of these times.”
    “YOUNG MAN!”
    Oh, God.
    “DO YOU HAVE A LADIES ROOM?”
    “Didn’t she just go?” Fantasy whispered. I shrugged.
    “Yes, Ma’am,” linebacker said. “If you’ll follow the gold signs to our gift shop, you’ll find facilities there.”
    Gift shop?
    “WHAT’D HE SAY, DAVIS? I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY.”
    Another one of the football players spoke up. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “just follow us.”
    The gift shop was Holy Smokes Saks: shiny marble floors, sacred symphony music, and soft chandelier lighting. We followed a woman wearing a dove-gray suit through a large section of leather coats (chained to the hangers and emblazoned with the church logo) to the Ladies Lounge. Fantasy and I waited outside the double doors,