“Enough,” Skinner said, raising his voice, slapping his hand on the hood of his big new truck. “None of that gutter talk. Not here. You bring a dust cloud of deception and immorality everywhere you go. Here I was, standing out here in the rain, thinking on this morning’s meditation—I have made you a light for the Gentiles, that you may bring salvation to the ends of the earth—and then you appear, talking filthy about squeezing a woman’s breasts like grapefruits.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Royce said. “Don’t tell me you don’t like titties, neither.”

“I hope this cross will become a beacon of light in the darkness,” Skinner said. “I’m told folks will be able to see its light for nearly two miles, beyond the hills and turns of this here highway.”

“Hallelujah, Brother Skinner,” Royce said, turning his head to spit. “Hallelujah.”

“Don’t you dare mock my faith,” Skinner said, feeling the heat in his face begin to cool. “What do you have when things get black as midnight up at your little shack in Carthage? Or when the final trumpet blows?”

“I got me some old dogs to keep me warm, dirty movies on some VHS tapes, and some Fighting Cock whiskey,” Royce said, grinning and scratching at his neck. “But I have to say my groceries have gotten a mite low since the last time we met. Hard keeping me and them dogs fed on a state pension. Two of my checks done bounced at the Piggly Wiggly last week and they posted them on the manager’s window like I’m some kind of fucking criminal.”

“You can’t help it,” Skinner said, seeing the whole cross taking shape there on the hill and in the rain. The majesty of the whole thing nearly made him weep. “You spew out profanities as easily as some men breathe. Did you ever consider some good, God-fearin’ folks find that kind of behavior reprehensible? It’s why I don’t care to be seen in your presence.”

“Yeah,” Royce said. “You might just lose your job handing out the collection plate for Pastor Traylor at First Baptist. Now, that’d be a damn shame. Some of the old women might stop wearing their good panties to Sunday service.”

“I have business to tend to,” Skinner said, wiping the rainwater off his hands on his trousers. “Just tell me what you want.”

Royce just grinned, his gold glasses fogged up and dotted with moisture. His bald head bare and slick, age spots dotted along his scalp. His loose skin hung off his skeletal face as if it was made of melting wax. He licked his lips, his breath smelling like charred ash, and kept on smiling.

“How much?” Skinner asked.

Royce named a figure.

“Mr. Royce, I think you’re out of your cotton-pickin’ mind.”