Free Poor Butterfly by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

Stokowski’s life has nothing to do with it.”
    “We will see to it that it becomes an issue,” he said.
    I reached for the door. Souvaine nodded and Ortiz stepped in front of me, barring my way, arms ready at his sides.
    “I will release this information with supporting evidence to the press in the morning,” said Souvaine.
    “Probably boost ticket sales,” I said. “Between you and me and Deacon Ortiz here, tickets aren’t going so well. A little publicity might spice things up. Now please ask Mr. Ortiz to step out of the way.”
    “If murder and assault are going on in that building,” cried Souvaine, “then I point the finger at the true Judas, the company of Satan’s minions who are trying to stir up rumor and tales of the violation of God’s laws to draw in the unwary.”
    “You change your story awfully fast. Reverend,” I said.
    “I’ll use what I must,” he said.
    “Ever done any acting?” I asked, looking not at Souvaine but at Ortiz, who still blocked me.
    “A bit,” he said, behind me.
    “Tell Deacon Ortiz to move now,” I said.
    “I’m not finished talking to you,” Souvaine said, his voice rising. “And I will thank you to respect the Lord and his humble representative by facing me when I talk to you.”
    Mr. Ortiz reached out with his right hand for my shoulder. Mr. Ortiz was faster than I thought, but he did not expect my right knee to come up into his groin.
    “No,” screamed Souvaine behind me.
    Ortiz grunted, his hands moving between his legs as he bent forward. I shoved him out of the way. At least I tried to shove him. He didn’t shove easily. He grabbed my shoulder. I faked a second kick to his again uncovered groin. He didn’t let go, but a reflex did make him loosen his grip. I pulled away, unzipping my new jacket. I opened the door, pulled my arms out of the sleeves, and let Mr. Ortiz stagger back a step, holding an empty jacket.
    “No more violence in the house of God!” Souvaine shouted.
    Ortiz stumbled after me into the hallway. Bertha was standing there with a fresh pitcher of lemonade and a frightened look on her face.
    “Go with the photograph of J. Minor at the beach,” I said, moving past her to the front door. Ortiz grunted behind me as I threw it open and went down the stairs. My back, never in a good mood, threatened and warned but I couldn’t listen. It was raining harder now. I ran across the street to the Crosley and got the door open. I was in the seat with the door locked when Ortiz reached the car. I started the engine and smiled at him; he moved to the front of the car. My smile stayed where it was but I had no faith in it.
    People were coming out of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots. I didn’t look in their direction. I looked for help on the street. There wasn’t any. Ortiz was now holding the Crosley up by the front bumper, the wheels clearing the ground. I put the gears in reverse and let out the clutch. The car jerked backward and Ortiz fell forward, his face banging into the hood of my car. I was going at a good clip in reverse when about fifteen people, led by the Reverend Souvaine, emerged onto the street, looking at me. Most of the people were old. Most of the old were women.
    Ortiz was standing now, blood dripping from his nose, rain trickling down his face. He picked my jacket up from where he had thrown it on the street. As I made a U-turn I watched him rip the jacket in two. For the first time since I had met him, Mr. Ortiz was smiling.
    I drove fast enough and far enough to feel sure no one was following me, and then I pulled over to enter the loss of one jacket in my notebook under expenses. There was a park on my left and a small hotel called the Stanyon on my right. I’d used enough gas, met enough new friends, and had enough to eat for one day. In addition, I was wet. I reached behind the seat and pulled out my battered suitcase. I considered leaving the package I had bought in the car, but decided against it.
    There