The preacher sharked his car down to Pacific and Elm at night when the ladies in the fishnet shirts and the cheetah hot pants came out. He rolled down his Honda’s window with a creakcreak and fanned the fives out for them to see. The bills were fresh and straight from the bank, ink-stinky, creaseless. The ladies ignored his bait, lit cigarettes and batted their falsies at other skulking vehicles. Starra and Malia had both gone with the preacher once and now they were like poof as in gone. He moneyed girls so he could read them Bibles out of hotel drawers. He spooned them room service and cranked the Evangelical channels and never even touched the girls or his own thingie. This was how he grew his congregation. Rhinestone said she knew which church it was. She peeked in once. She said he wore a gold suit while he played the piano and the pews were full of women with elaborate hats singing, “Come, People of the risen King.” He was sick, that man.
Love in Infant Monkeys