Still, the grandeur and pageantry of that vision appealed to him. He’d scaled back his hopes for the sake of practicality, to the point that he felt hostile to any attempt to make things fancier than his squalid little compromise. It was stupid to feel that way. He had to wallow in the mud for now, but that didn’t mean he had to like it, to be satisfied with it. Maybe he’d never achieve the original mega-project’s glory, but he could make things better than they were.
“Fix it,” he told himself.
5. Garrett
A few days later, Martin was laughing in the deckhouse. Garrett was coming to distrust that sound. “What is it?” he asked, carrying a dripping wetsuit.
“I’ve found cheap labor for us without hiring foreigners. It’s time to bring in some help.”
Garrett took the computer Martin offered and saw a Net site: The Holy Spiritual Confederacy of Saint Lee.
Garrett said, “Saint Lee? What is he, the patron of kung-fu?”
“No. The Lee.”
“Bruce will always be my Lee.”
Martin took back the screen and rapped Garrett’s knuckles with it. “I’ve made contact with these folks. They’re a close-knit group with a good reputation in their community — for hard work, anyway — and some remarkable staying power for a cult.”
“You’re proposing to fill Castor up with lunatics?”
“It’s perfect! They work well together, they’re seeking a new spiritual haven, and they actually make money. And it so happens they’ve got none other than Bradford Duke among them.”
“Duke! The washed-up actor?” Poor guy; The Sea Kings was just one of his flop movies.
“The very same. Now, the group needs time to pray on its decision and get itself over here, but I expect them to move quickly. We’re essentially offering them free housing and our other facilities in exchange for their money and labor.”
“Hold on!” said Garrett. “You’ve already made a deal with them? We don’t have any idea whether these people will be trustworthy. In fact, shouldn’t we be pretty sure they’re one fish short of an aquarium?”
Martin gestured at the bare concrete walls. “You said it yourself: who in their right mind would come here?”
Garrett sighed. He’d had in mind some cheap labor from Cubans, or grad students or something, and random crazies were definitely not part of the plan. But having a dedicated group of workers he didn’t directly have to pay made too much financial sense to ignore. “Fine, fine. We’ll try it. Will we be able to throw them out if necessary?”
“I’m making sure of that. This is a good deal for us, lots of cheap hands. It might work.”
“Shall I start padding the walls?”
“It won’t be that bad. Surely you can put up with a little chanting. On another note, remember that Eaton wants to meet soon to discuss an affiliation with his biotechnology firm. That should appeal more to you.”
“What about the religious aspect of this?” asked Garrett. “Doesn’t it bother you to be working with the Holy Dixie Convention or whatever they are?”
Martin looked smug. “I can tolerate them for a higher cause, as I can tolerate atheists.”
“What makes you think I’m an atheist? You’ve never asked.”
“I don’t need to. Whether or not you’ve consciously chosen, you’ve not shown any signs of faith. You’re an atheist by default if not by choice. But I don’t really care if you disagree with me, so long as we’re in accord on the need to make Castor successful.”
Garrett didn’t appreciate the implied accusation of intellectual laziness. He’d consciously chosen, all right, and his choice was to steer clear of the whole business of religion. He’d met many smart people who fervently believed things that were bonkers to him. He’d gotten into enough arguments that he’d decided it was best not to talk about the subject at all. He said, “Let’s make the arrangements.”
Garrett ended up being the one to ride to Cuba to see Eaton. The man sounded worth meeting, even aside from his usefulness. Once Garrett docked, he called the guy. “Where should we meet?”
“There’s a bar near the hospital.” Eaton sounded stern and loud, voicing each word like an order, or maybe a complaint.
Garrett docked and made his way towards a concrete building under heavy renovation. There was some kind of historical re-enactment group setting up nearby, with the people in pseudo-Victorian garb. Come to think of it, Garrett hadn’t seen a woman wearing a dress in months. A pirate’s life for me. He sighed, thinking of Alexis, and waited until Eaton met him outside. It had to be him: a sharp man with freshly ironed clothes and some scars he hadn’t bothered to remove. Garrett shook his hand. “Walter Eaton, I presume?”
“Let’s get inside and talk a bit before we go.”
Garrett looked into the bar, admiring the open-air style of it. “I don’t drink anymore.”
“Bah. What kind of Irishman are you?”
“I’m an American, sir. Ethnicity is for foreigners.”
Eaton’s gave a quick laugh. “Well said. We can talk on the way there. I’d like to get away from those freaks.”
Garrett glanced at the historical group again, a few dozen people milling around. “Is it the town’s anniversary or something?”
“I asked around. It’s some sort of cult.”
“Oh, hell no.” Garrett re-evaluated them. They weren’t so much setting up as milling around with crates. All adults, grim-looking and not demonstrating handicrafts to tourists.
“What’s wrong?”
“These, apparently, are my new workers.”
“My God. You hired these clowns?”
“It’s more of a partnership.” With a sigh Garrett said, “I’m sorry. Would you mind waiting while I find out why they’re a week early?”
“I’ll be over there,” said Eaton, pointing to the bar.
Garrett steeled himself and made for the group, getting the attention of two men in grey woolen coats. The man on the left looked impeccable despite the muggy heat, while the other was balder, bearded, flame-faced and shedding sweat as he moved constantly about. Garrett looked back and forth between them and decided the second man was in charge; he couldn’t say why. As soon as he introduced himself, that scruffy man grabbed Garrett’s hand in both of his own and pumped it up and down. “An excellent thing to meet you, sir. I’m Leroy Phillip, the head of our little congregation.”
With a smooth motion the other fellow interposed himself and smiled as he shook Garrett’s hand, while standing with his heart towards Garrett and his eyes wide and bright. “I suppose you’ve seen me before. Bradford Duke.”
Garrett only now recognized the actor. “We’ve made good use of some of your stage props.” Duke wasn’t one of those actors who was a foot shorter in real life; he seemed wary and eager to try out some real action-hero stuff.
“Ha!” said Duke. “Life imitates art and art, life. Tragedy becomes comedy and vice versa, back and forth through time.”
Phillip said, “O Captain, the Holy Spiritual Confederacy of Saint Lee is arrived and ready to take up residence.”
Garrett waved at the dozens of — Confederates? — with bewilderment. “Nice to meet you, but you’re early.”
“Spiritual pilgrims move when God calls them. More tangibly, we were spurred by a tip that we’d been identified as ‘troublemakers’.”