Ramsey could remember the thrill of hearing him. The thrill of the crowd and the roar of the brothers cheering. Those were the same crowds, the same brothers, who were out there smashing the storefronts of the slant-owned groceries and the chain pharmacies and the Stereo World and the old furniture emporium they had shopped at for ages. Flood sale. Everything must go.

He had the radio turned down low to dim the distraction of it. The soft cries for help seemed like the voices of ghosts in the storm, distant and mournful and lost.

The brothers.

Well, they aren't the only ones to take whatever they can get their hands on, Ramsey told himself. When it comes to that, all men are brothers.

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. He knew it was time. He knew he ought to go and get this over with.

But he lingered, watching.

The things of the spirit, the things of the flesh.

That was Peter Patterson, meanwhile, his restless mind returning to the Reverend Skyles as he stood under the skyscraper's overhang, all shrugged up in his wet overcoat; as the wind-whipped water sluiced down and spattered the shins of his trousers where he stood; as he waited anxiously for the feds to come.

He shivered. He bounced on his toes. He thought: Where are they already?

He thought: How could he do it? His restless mind returning to Skyles, returning to himself and the things he'd done in his life, the journey that had brought him here, the booze, the women. Because he knew how Skyles could do it. He knew exactly how he could do it, and do it again. You weren't even sorry afterward. Not really. You were ashamed, for sure. When you were sober, when you were satisfied and bare-assed, looking for your shorts, looking for some way to dull the contrast between what you knew full well you ought to be and what in fact you were, you were plenty ashamed then. You hated the consequences, the women screaming at you in their hurt and betrayal, the three sons by two mothers that you never saw, the one boy in jail. But how could you say you were sorry for what you remembered with a dreamy smile? How could you say you regretted what you'd do again in a city minute? Oh yes, you would. If the opportunity arose-and you arose-back you'd be in the Country of King Penis, loyal subject of His Majesty, flying to do his bidding at his least command…