“From what you said, I take it you’ve lived here a long time, Mr. Ryan?” Lydia said.
“Boy and man, yes, ma’am.”
“Then you remember the Black Chapel before it fell into disrepair?”
“Back when Black Luke ran it? You bet. A wild place in those days.”
“Black Luke?”
“The Right Reverend Lucullus Black, minister to the Brethren of the End Days,” Sam said, showing a gap-toothed smile. “Black Luke to us locals. We called his people Dazers because Luke preached the End Days, you know? And most of his flock acted like they were in a daze. Luke took over the Chapel in the ’fifties, built up a big following. Heck of a preacher. We’re Catholic, sort of, but Morrie and I caught a few of Luke’s services ourselves. Great show. He was a local star, like James Brown or Prince, Saginaw style. I don’t suppose you young folks remember much about the ’sixties?”
Lydia smiled. “My mom used to say if you can remember the ’sixties, you weren’t really there.”
Sam nodded. “She’s dead right about that. ’Sixties were boom times in this town. Auto plants runnin’ triple shifts, seven days a week. People had jobs, plenty of money, and Black Luke knew how to get his share. These are the End Days, people, so let’s party hearty while we can.”
“Sounds like my kind of church,” Puck said.
“Back then, a lot of people felt the same way. He really packed ’em in.”
“Would you happen to have any pictures of the Chapel from those days?” Lydia asked.
“Pictures, ma’am?”
“We want the building as close to original as possible. I found a few photographs in the Castle Museum archives, but they only show the building’s facade.”
“You’re restoring it? I thought you folks were converting it into condos or something.”
“The school will be remodeled into apartments but the Black Chapel is an historic building,” Arroyo said. “We’re going to restore it to what it was.”
“Mister,” Ryan said softly, shaking his head, “you got no idea what that place was.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Then I’ll tell ya. Workin’ this neighborhood, you meet some lowlifes, but Black Luke was the rock-bottom worst. That man didn’t believe in a damn thing but the almighty dollar. Called the congregation his flock and sheared ’em like the sheep they were. Bangin’ half the women in his church and their daughters, too. Young girls, twelve, thirteen. And they worshiped him! Treated him like some kind of junior-league Jesus. When they painted that Chapel black in his honor, I thought the End Days might really be here, that God almighty would strike him dead with lightning or something. That was thirty-odd years ago and I still get a shiver every time I look at it.”
“I’ll admit, the place gives a man pause,” Puck acknowledged. “Never seen a church quite like it. But if this Reverend Black was so bad, why didn’t somebody stop him?”
“Somebody did. Cal Jenkins, the church caretaker, shot Luke in the head. And most of us locals said amen, brother. If Cal hadn’t shot himself, too, he would have been a shoo-in for mayor around here. Don’t restore Luke’s church to what it was, folks. Make it something better.”
“Well, we’ll certainly try,” Arroyo said tactfully.
“Didn’t mean to go off on you like that.” Sam smiled. “Old-timers like to hear ourselves talk. There is one more thing you oughta know, though. The Black Chapel’s haunted, they say.”
“Really?”
“Why wouldn’t it be, all the vile crap that went down there and still does? Locals claim Black Luke and ole Cal wander the building at night, bleeding from their bullet holes, looking for their lost souls.”
“More likely it’s junkies stumbling around,” Shea said. “From the trash, it looks like an army of them have been crashing in there.”
Sam nodded. “Might be junkies. On the other hand, if you restore the Chapel, maybe you’ll bring Black Luke back with it. And I doubt roasting in hell all these years has improved his disposition any.”
“The doors of my Chapel will be open to everyone,” Arroyo said smoothly, “even Pastor Black, if he returns. You’re welcome to attend our services yourself, Mr. Ryan.”
“Then you’d better bump up your fire insurance, Pastor. If Morrie and I stop by, your church’ll surely get popped by lightning.”
“I doubt it.” Arroyo smiled politely, rising. “And don’t think you’ve frightened me away with your ghost stories. I have an important meeting. I’ll leave you two to sort things out.”
Puck excused himself as well, went off to find the men’s. Leaving Lydia Ford and Shea facing each other across the turquoise Formica.
“So, Mr. Shea. Are we going to get along?”
“Maybe. As long as you understand that I don’t work for you, Mrs. Ford. I work for the guy who signs my checks. On this job, that’s Pastor Arroyo.”
“Fair enough, as long as you understand that that same gentleman has given me final say on all design decisions. I have a double masters in Interior Design and engineering. I’m not a civilian, Mr. Shea.”
“Glad to hear it. And call me Dan. Mr. Shea is my dad.”
“All right then, Dan. Have you worked with female engineers before?”
“Not many, and up north we call them ladies, not females.”
“Very courteous. Any problems working with women?”
“Not exactly. It’s just different.”
“Really?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “How so?”
“In school you studied construction equipment, right? Skilsaws, Sawzalls, plate compactors? You know how they work?”
“I’m familiar with their specs and capabilities, yes.”
“Could you operate one? For wages, I mean?”
“Certainly not. A soil compactor weighs more than I do. Why?”
“There. That’s the difference between you and a male engineer.”
“Because a man can operate heavy machinery and I can’t?”
“No, ma’am. Construction gear is heavy, dirty, and hard to handle. A Sawzall will zip through a two-by-six in three seconds and through your arm a lot faster than that. There’s no shame in admitting you can’t operate one. Trouble is, deep down, most male engineers think they can. It’s a guy thing. Makes ’em dangerous. Are you dangerous, Mrs. Ford?”
“Only when provoked, Mr. Shea. Don’t worry, I won’t try filling in for any of your men. You run your side of the business, I’ll run mine.”
“Then we should get along fine.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” she sighed.
“Yeah.” Dan nodded. “Me too.”
Ordinarily, Shea’s gypsy construction crew rolling into a town scared the hell out of folks. A motley caravan of vans and work trucks driven by wild North Country boys, woolly and rough around the edges? Fetch the family twelve-gauge down from the attic and keep it close at hand.
The Black Chapel neighborhood barely noticed. In the run-down shacks and shabby apartments, people kept blinds drawn and doors triple-locked as a matter of course. Most homes had guns. Loaded and handy.
A new crew of roughneck white boys in town? So what? Drugs, drive-bys, and crack-crazy gangbangers had already turned the Black Chapel district into a combat zone. One more posse didn’t matter a damn.
Shea’s troubles began at dawn the first day. Four burly black men and an even tougher-looking heavyset woman were waiting outside the church at seven when Dan arrived. They said Carmen San Miguel had sent them. Shea explained the job of cleaning up the church, told them the rules and the wages. Any questions?
“Damn right!” the smallest of them piped up, a ratty little guy with a cast in one eye. “Carmen said we’d be workin’ real construction jobs. We oughta get more’n minimum wage and a crummy three bucks a hour.”