Excerpt from chapter 1:

"Have you found Jesus?"

The man's voice grated on me like the sound of a steam engine that hadn't seen the business end of an oilier in months. He shoved a gaudy pamphlet in my face before I could back away. It was decorated with kitschy crosses and smiling cherubs.

Frankly, all I wanted to do right now was eat my take-out in peace.

"Yeah," I forced a smile to my thin lips, "He's living in a cushy apartment uptown, probably watching the football game as we speak."

"Blasphemer!" The old evangelical's watery grey eyes grew wide.

Okay, I know I really shouldn't bait people like this, but his kind are among the few who can really push my buttons. Well, him and anyone else trying to convert me. I've got my own beliefs, thanks, and I'd be just as happy if the world would leave me be.

"You'll never find salvation without Jesus' love in your heart." The man was just short of spitting on me as he pushed himself in my face.

I'd just as well prefer he kept his distance. This was no clean-shaven and respectable preacher. The man had the untrimmed beard and mismatched clothing of one who lived on the street, or close to it. And the less said about his breath the better.

Heh. Not that I was one to talk. My thin leather jacket was older than half the people who voted in the last election, and I was just short of wearing holes through my jeans and tennis shoes.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry, friend." I discreetly placed a hand between us to urge him back a step as I spoke. "Didn't mean to say anything nasty about James... I mean Jesus. I'm just," I held back a laugh, "I'm just not much into all that religious stuff anymore."

He narrowed his eyes, as if seeing me for the first time. "What is your name, lost one?" His voice was rough and gravelly. I was starting to think I'd have to reassess my opinion of him. Perhaps he was a retired priest. There was something about the way he spoke, tried to step into my confidence, that suggested he'd been doing this for a long time.

"Robert," I grinned as I slipped my leg of chicken take-out back into its box, "Robert O'Toole, at your service."

He didn't smile in return, but at least he took the hint and backed another step away. I appreciated that. His stench was almost enough to make me lose my appetite. And that was saying something. New York was not exactly known as the cleanest place on this earth, and the Mott Haven district even less so.

"You are lost, my son," he continued as I tried to shoo him away, "Tell Father Humbald what ills you."

"Somehow, Father," I struggled to hold back a laugh, "I doubt you'd be up to it."





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