The Trinity Game

view from a handheld camera moving with the crowd.
    And there was Reverend Tim Trinity, wearing his shiny silk suit, waving his famous blue Bible, flashing his perfect fake teeth, leading a parade of uneducated misfits, drunks, and hippies, dancing and singing through the streets like it was Mardi Gras day.
    It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so fucking tragic.
    Tim Trinity, tent revival Holy Roller, charismatic faith healer, cable TV prosperity preacher…master con man. P.T. Barnum for the new age.
    And, undeniably, some kind of prophet. But there was no way to know what kind, and the risk was too great, and so he would be stopped. If the Nevada mob didn’t get him, the FBI surely would. Trinity’s voices, whatever their origin, would not be allowed to change the world, when nobody who mattered really wanted the world changed. On that, you could bet the farm. It was all over but for the gnashing of teeth.
    The camera stopped moving and focused on Julia Rothman, the ex-girlfriend reporter Daniel had brought into this case, thereby setting in motion the chain of events that led to this…disaster. Rothman cupped a hand over one ear and raised her voice to speak over the sound of a brass band marching by behind her.
    Nick picked up the remote and turned up the volume.
    “…just past Elysian Fields, and it’s hard to estimate the size of the crowd, but it is definitely growing more rapidly now, and as you can see, the atmosphere is very lively. Impromptu street parades are part of the fabric of daily life in the Crescent City, and most of the people behind me are not religious followers of Reverend Tim Trinity but local residents, simply come out to pass a good time...”
    As if to prove her point, a couple of drag queens paused behind her, vamping and blowing kisses at the camera before dancing off with the rest of the crowd.
    “The real test will come when we reach Esplanade, where a much larger crowd awaits. I’m told the crowd assembled there numbers over ten thousand, packing Rampart Street all the way back to Louis Armstrong Park, but the National Guard is blocking the street, refusing to let them move forward…”

Tennessee Williams Suite – Hotel Monteleone…
    W illiam Lamech muted the television and dialed room service.
    “Yes, send up a cup of turtle soup, two dozen oysters on the half shell, and a bottle of…” he scanned the wine list, “Bollinger R.D., 1990. Thank you.”
    Let the rock stars have their Cristal, Lamech thought as he brought the television’s volume back up. When the second-best is truly excellent, the key factor to consider becomes best
value
. The Cristal was superlative, but to his mind, the 1990 Bollinger was plenty excellent, for a lot less money. That’s why so many rock stars ended up broke, while he had built a legacy that would make his progeny comfortable for generations to come.
    It’s a funny old world; if you live long enough, you’ll see things you could never have imagined. He remembered that sunny day three weeks ago, when he first brought the news of Tim Trinity’s predictions to his colleagues and had to convince them that it wasn’t a joke. If you’d told him then that it would cost five million dollars to end Trinity’s life, he’d have laughed you right out of Nevada. And if you’d told him that, in just three weeks, “ReverendTim” would lead a march of over ten thousand people through the streets of New Orleans, carried on live television around the globe, he’d have thought you completely insane.
    A lot can change in three weeks, and by God, had it ever.
    And considering what Trinity had become in that brief time, five million dollars was very good value indeed. There are times when the second-best just isn’t good enough.
    He shifted his gaze from the television across the room to the laptop computer open on the coffee table in front of him. What a beautiful example of cause and effect in its purest form: Trinity dies on the television screen, and I press a button on the computer. I press a button on the computer, and money moves from a bank account in the Bahamas to a bank account in Switzerland.
    William Lamech had no doubt it would be accomplished. He just hoped Lucien Drapeau wouldn’t pull the trigger until the champagne arrived.

“T his is impossible,” said Daniel, bulling his way between a couple of stoned surfer dudes, pushing through the crush of the mob.
    His earpiece crackled and Pat said, “Roger that. Move closer