The flames of the Holy Spirit weren’t supposed to hurt, though. Weren’t supposed to turn skin black and crispy. The pastor flailed desperately from side to side, slapping at his chest. His mouth was wide open and he was making a hiss like a snake, like a demon. His eyes were red and bloody.

Over the screams Dwayne heard the fat on the pastor’s body sizzle and pop like bacon in a pan.

Dwayne finally grabbed Pastor Zeke by his Sansabelt slacks and dunked him backward into the water. Steam and bubbles stung his eyes, and a terrible smell, sulphur and hell and burning flesh and the swampy stink of drowned men and still water. He lunged out of the tank and laid full length on the red carpet, praying as fast as he could think of the words. Some of the deacons rushed over him, and he heard the wet thump of Pastor Zeke being laid down next to him.

He turned his head and saw Zeke gasp his last breath. The carpet was wet and sandpaper-rough against his cheek.

Dwayne had to wonder whether or not he’d really been baptized at all, or whether he’d have to go in there again.

Chapter Fifteen

Velvet

When Velvet rounded the corner, she saw Lenny Bradshaw huddled in the doorway of Fong’s Deli, shifting miserably from one foot to the other while he blew on his white fingers. The cold had put little pink roses in his cheeks. He looked like an ad for L.L. Bean in his ski sweater and khaki coat and Docker pants. Hiking boots, too. Christ, he looked ready for the Vermont woods, not downtown Dallas.

“Forget your gloves?” she asked sweetly. He glanced at her, away, and then at her again as his eyes widened. She adjusted her brassy red wig—six bucks at the local Salvation Army store—and skated her dark wraparound shades down her nose to let him recognize her.

“My god, what happened to you?” he asked. She’d tried covering the bruises up with Robby’s limited supply of makeup, but Cover Girl standard issue just wasn’t cutting the mustard.

“Your mom punched me out.”

“Very funny.” He kept staring at her, fascinated. “Uh, the deli’s not open yet. It’s too early.”

“No shit, Sherlock, they teach you that in reporter school? We’re going down the block. Someplace quiet.”

He didn’t look especially happy about it, but he fell in next to her. His hiking boots made thick slapping sounds; they made Velvet’s steps in Robby’s too-large tennis shoes sound dainty. Don’t dance with this guy, she reminded herself. And if you fuck him, make him take his shoes off.