Come Sunday Morning by Terry E. Hill

Monday lunch with three of his oldest friends.
    Dino was perfectly suited for the roles of muscular bodyguard, driver, and loyal keeper of all things secret. His brown trench coat wafted in the breeze, revealing a revolver nestled in a leather shoulder holster as Hezekiah approached.
    Dino was the one person in the church who consistently saw the vulnerable Hezekiah Cleaveland from the unobstructed vantage of his rearview mirror. What would have shocked his flock the most were the countless hours Dino had spent late at night waiting in the limo outside the old converted Victorian in the Adams District.
    Hezekiah was already ten minutes late when they arrived at the restaurant. It had taken him more energy than expected to recover from the confrontation with Lance Savage. His hand shook as he steadied himself to step from the rear of the car.
    He heard a man yell out as he walked to the entrance, “Hey, it’s Hezekiah Cleaveland!”
    Hezekiah looked to his right and saw a wiry little black man with disheveled hair approaching. He wore ragged pants and walked with a limp.
    Hezekiah waved, hoping the gesture would provide ample fodder for the little man to recount future stories of “the day I met Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland.”
    The tattered man was not satisfied. Dino saw the rapid pace at which he advanced and stepped in front of the man.
    â€œHey, Pastor Cleaveland!” the man blurted out as he tried in vain to walk around Dino. “You ought to be helping poor people in this city instead of building that megachurch.”
    A lengthy barrage of insults from the scraggly man caused Hezekiah to halt in his tracks. He placed his hand firmly on Dino’s shoulder and moved him to one side allowing the little man clear passage and said, “Maybe you should go back to wherever it is you came from?” With that, Hezekiah took a one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and threw it at the stunned man’s feet. “That should be enough for a bus ticket out of town.”
    The little vagrant stood speechless as Hezekiah disappeared through the restaurant door.
    Hezekiah’s first inclination had been to cancel the lunch with his three buddies. After anguished deliberation, he decided to meet with them to learn just how far rumors of his affair had spread.
    Franco, the maître d’ at Petro’s Steak House, greeted his most famous customer. “Pastor Cleaveland,” he said, “good to see you, sir. Your party is waiting for you at your usual booth.”
    Faded black-and-white photographs of famous Los Angeles athletes covered the walls of the dimly lit room. Booths with seating covered in cracking red vinyl were occupied by lawyers, construction workers, and every occupation in between. Dishes clanked and waiters moved through the room in a frenzied blur balancing trays piled with steaming dishes.
    Rev. Jonathon Copperfield, a ruddy-faced pastor from Anaheim, was the first to see Hezekiah walking to the table. Hector Ramirez, the mayor of Los Angeles, was sitting next to him, and Phillip Thornton, the owner of the Los Angeles Chronicle, sat across the table.
    All three men were natives of the city. If there was a secret worth telling in Los Angeles, one, if not all, of these men knew it.
    Hezekiah was immediately struck by the absence of boisterous chatter that normally greeted him.
    â€œHello, gentlemen,” he said as he placed a linen napkin on his lap. “What’s going on here? Who died?”
    The three men exchanged momentary glances. Jonathon Copperfield was the first to speak.
    â€œNobody died, Hezekiah. We were just talking about some gossip Phillip heard last week.”
    â€œAll right, boys. Who’s going to fill me in, or are we just going to change the subject to one you feel won’t offend my delicate sensibilities?”
    A heavyset waiter wearing a black vest, which barely concealed his bulging belly, came to the table and handed Hezekiah a