Free South Street by David Bradley Page B

Sloan.
    The matron looked at him, then at the studio couch at the other end of the office. “Yeah,” she said, “I ’spect you’ll be all right so long as you keep everythin’ on all the time.” The Reverend Mr. Sloan glared at her. She unconcernedly levered herself to her feet, gathered up her cloth, broom, and dust pan, and departed. Mr. Sloan cursed in a most un-Christian manner and went back behind his desk, stabbed a button on his panel. Thirty seconds later his first assistant stood before him. The Reverend Mr. Sloan looked up from his watch. “Getting a bit slow in our old age, aren’t we, Fletcher?” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan.
    “Sorry,” said Brother Fletcher.
    “Never mind,” said Mr. Sloan graciously. “You have important responsibilities today. Have you prepared the sermon?”
    Brother Fletcher nodded silently. His jaw muscles bulged slightly as he clenched his teeth.
    “Good, good,” said Mr. Sloan jovially. “No, no need to show it to me. I have complete faith in your abilities.”
    “Thank you,” Brother Fletcher replied stiffly.
    “Sit down, Brother, sit down. You won’t be on again for another twenty minutes.”
    Brother Fletcher looked doubtfully at the chair.”
    “Sit, Fletcher,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan.
    Brother Fletcher sat, accepting the seat that Leroy had declined.
    “There,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan in a voice that dripped rancid honey and machine oil, as Brother Fletcher’s body sank into the depths of the chair. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you.”
    Brother Fletcher’s Adam’s apple bobbed expectantly.
    “Turnbull did an excellent job warming them up this morning,” Mr. Sloan observed. “I’d appreciate it if you’d convey my compliments.”
    “Certainly,” said Brother Fletcher.
    “Tut, tut, tut,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan, shaking his head. “Such a shame about that young man. Promising future, good mind. Such a waste.”
    “Waste?” said Brother Fletcher.
    “Indeed,” said Mr. Sloan. “I’m afraid he is much too concerned with the pleasures of the flesh. I regret to say it, but I fear he must go.”
    Brother Fletcher looked shocked. “I know Turnbull has a girl friend, but don’t you think that at his age that’s only nat—”
    “He’s queer,” said Mr. Sloan.
    “Upl?” said Brother Fletcher.
    “Queer,” repeated Mr. Sloan. “Faggot. Sissy. Punk. Homosexual.” He raised a hand. “I know, I know, Fletcher, you were fooled. So was I for a time. Turnbull puts on a good show. I’ve noticed him making advances toward Sister Fundidia, trying to confuse us. But I know. I can tell.” Mr. Sloan leaned back in his chair and languidly placed a hand on the back of his neck, patting his bald head as if it were covered with a lush growth. He smiled winningly at Brother Fletcher. “If there’s anything I hate,” he said, “it’s a closet queen.” Brother Fletcher’s Adam’s apple bobbed rapidly. Mr. Sloan dropped his hand. His face hardened. “Really, Fletcher, we couldn’t have him leading a troop of boy scouts, now could we?”
    “I, ah, hadn’t thought of it quite that way,” Brother Fletcher conceded.
    Mr. Sloan smiled. “Of course you hadn’t. A man like you would not think of such things, coming as you do from an, uh, rural area. But I have seen the world, Brother, and I know. It’s my job to keep an eye out for such things. Anyone else would have missed it, but I could see he was concealing his dirty, unholy tendencies. But you needn’t worry about it. I’ll handle Turnbull. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but it seems that I will be able to make that fact-finding tour after all. I just wanted to tell you that I feel perfectly confident in your abilities and intend to leave you in complete charge. I plan to leave in about two weeks. For the next month you will be in charge.”
    Brother Fletcher smiled slightly. “I hope you’ll be pleased when you return.”
    “I’m sure I will be,” Mr. Sloan said.