67. (The Sun’ll Come Up) Tomorrow

Around three dozen of the forty orphans were running round the car-lot, pointing the finger guns at the G-men going ‘Pew! Pew! These must have been abandoned by rich parents, as most kids under eleven in the metropolitan area knew what a saturday-night-special really sounded like. They had all been well dressed, no doubt for the cameras. It didn’t look like they’d be parade smart when Lilith arrived. Maybe dirty urchins would be better for the optics. I searched in vain for a blond afro among the girls but the only afros were on a couple of the G-Men’s heads. Four of the older boys were smoking round the side of the building, in full view of Mother Innovación. She called them over.

‘Smoking, boys? Don’t you know it’s bad for your health? Put ‘em out, and hand over the packet.’

The tallest boy handed over a packet of Chesterfields with just two coffin nails in it.

‘Now get over there and bully the youngsters like other children do.’

The four of them shuffled over to the orphans, hands in pockets, shoulders slumped. If they did do any bullying, I didn’t think their hearts would be in it.

The nun tossed a cigarette up from the packet and caught it between her thin lips. The creases above her lip multiplied.

‘Praise the Lord. A decent smoke.’ She lit it with the zippo. The crest said USMC. She was too old to have had a combat rôle, but she might have been old enough to have served with Barbara Dulinsky. I pointed at the lighter. ‘Were you in for ‘Nam?’ This started a coughing fit, but she didn’t laugh first. When she’d recovered she asked me how old I thought she was, although her actual words had a bit more salt on than I expected from a Bride of the Nazarene.

‘Which clown put you in charge of orphans?’ I asked her.

She pointed a gnarled finger towards the entrance to the lot and nearly missed, ‘That one.’

“Buttons the Clown” was holding on to the strings of enough balloons for all the kids in the yard. In the other hand, he had yet another corn dog. Some of the smaller kids, about half of the orphans crowded round Mr D. The rest tried to look as though they weren’t interested. Even eight-year-olds know about cool.

Satan was giving the bluff laugh of his anagram. It was frightening the children in the way that the wino employed by the cheapskate manager of a department store at Christmas does. One of the G-Men muscled in front of the kids. One fell and started to cry. Mother Innovación didn’t move. Mr D squirted his lapel flower in the Fed’s face.

‘Hey Sonny! You wanna balloon too?’