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“Sure, Jer,” said Johnny as he allowed his large body to drop down on the crooked and aged old couch and flicked on the small TV set in the corner of the room. “Whatever you say.”

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In spite of the fact that he’d promised his friend to stay put, Johnny soon felt a compelling need to break that promise and head out of the apartment he shared with his partner in crime—or uncrime, ever since they’d reformed. A large body like the one he carried through life needs to be fed at regular intervals, and this was what posed the problem. He’d been watching the adventures of the men and women on Passion Island, one of those reality shows that seemed to be all the rage, when he felt his stomach loudly protest. So he went in search of food. Only when he opened the cupboard, there was very little that would satisfy a big guy like him: apart from a stack of sardine cans and an empty bag of Wonder Bread, only empty space was to be found. The fridge was even worse: apart from the remnants of last night’s pizza, which he ate, and two cold beers, which he drank, the thing was empty.

So Johnny decided there was only one thing to do: he needed to do some shopping. Jerry could thank him later. And he’d only just stepped out of the apartment when he came upon a handsome-looking man with a very snazzy coiffure, who pressed a flyer into his hands and said, “Read this, my friend. It will open your eyes.” Since his eyes were already open, Johnny didn’t know how to respond to this. The otherman jumped into the breach by adding, “We’ve all been lied to, my friend. And it’s time that we learned the truth.”

“The truth?” asked Johnny. His mama had always taught him to speak the truth, so this proposition appealed to him greatly.

“Just read the information on the flyer,” the man suggested. “It’s all there. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

These words were imminently familiar to Johnny, as he’d heard them being used in the many, many trials he’d participated in over the course of a long and industrious criminal career. The man reminded him of something, and for a moment he couldn’t put his finger on it. But then finally he got it. “Are you a brother, brother?” he asked, his eyes lighting up. His weeks spent as a Jehovah’s Witness were still fresh in his mind. It had been a period in his life fraught with frustration, but also with a keen sense of kinship with the other men and women who had gone door to door to spread the word of the Lord to the world, only to have the door thrown in their faces almost each and every time.

“Yes, I am, brother,” said the man, placing a brotherly hand on Johnny’s broad shoulder.

“I lost faith, brother,” Johnny confessed. “I knocked on so many doors, and no one would answer. So I finally stopped knocking.” Also there was the fact that he and Jerry had been arrested while out proselytizing. It hadn’t gone down well with their congregation, unfortunately. He didn’t think he should mention that minor detail to this man, in whom he now recognized a kindred spirit.

“Come to the meeting tonight, brother,” said the man, as he held out a hand.

Johnny shook it warmly. Somehow he felt this was fate. When at his lowest ebb, along came this savior, and he, for one, was adamant to grab onto this life raft with both hands.

“What’s your name, brother?” he asked finally.

“Fido Siniawski,” said the other man.

“I’m Johnny,” said Johnny. “Is it all right if I bring a friend?”

“Brother,” said Fido, “you can bring all the friends you want. The more the merrier.”

And so it was with a spring in his step that Johnny Carew headed to the General Store. A spring in his step and a small stack of flyers in his pocket, to hand out to anyone who would listen. Now all he needed was his trusty bible and a crisp white shirt and nice tie and he was back in business, baby!

9

We’d finally arrived home, the precious stone still safe in Odelia’s purse and no carjackers or purse-snatchers or other scum of the earth having waylaid us or even having showed their ugly faces, and frankly I heaved a sigh of relief.

“Now I think I know what those money transporters must feel like,” said Dooley, who had experienced the same unabated tension from the moment that diamond had been placed in our possession to the moment we finally arrived home. “It’s very stressful, don’t you think, Max?”

“Extremely stressful,” I agreed.

“I saw a documentary on the Discovery Channel once and they said money transporters suffer more from stomach ulcers than the average person. I hope Odelia won’t turn this into a regular thing.” He grabbed his stomach. “I think I can feel an ulcer developing already, Max. Can’t you?”

“I think I’m fine for now, Dooley,” I said with a smile. “No ulcers anywhere in sight, I’m happy to say.”

“I’m not so sure, Max,” he said, giving me a dubious look. “It takes years for an ulcer to develop, so one could already be there, only you don’t know it until it’s too late. Same with cancer.”