Steve Stahl, Oliver’s dour, crew-cut factotum, entered the dining hall just as Pender and Epstein were leaving. Shirtless and shoeless, wearing a terry-cloth robe over a pair of baggy surfer shorts, he held the screen door open for them, then performed an exaggerated, head-swiveling double take behind their departing backs. “Who in the name of all that’s holy was that?”
“Writers. They’re doing a book on the movement. They want to observe the ceremony tonight.”
“You turned them down, right?” said Stahl, a retired Marine captain who also functioned as Oliver’s chief son of a bitch. (Every spiritual leader has one.)
“Partially-I told them that if they wanted to stick around, they’d have to participate like everyone else.”
“You’re kidding! Did you look at them, O-there’s a pair of walking buzzkills if I ever saw one.”
“I’m quite aware of that, Steven. But this could be a major opportunity for the institute-the big break that moves us from the backwaters to the forefront of the movement.”
Oliver lifted his cup of chai to his lips, discovered it was empty, and handed it wordlessly to Stahl, who refilled it from the gleaming stainless-steel urn on the table by the wall and brought it back to him. The guru, who preferred to be called a spiritual adviser, took a sip, nodded appreciatively, then closed his eyes. He inhaled slowly and deliberately through his nostrils, then exhaled a gentle stream of air from between his pursed lips. “So rather than send them away,” he continued after a few more calming breaths, “what we need to work on is how to maximize their experience tonight while minimizing the, ah, ‘buzzkill’ effect, as you put it.”
“How much do they actually know about the ceremony?”
“Very little.”
“The sacrament?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“But you want them to take the sacrament, same as everybody else?”
The boss nodded ever so slightly. The icy blue eyes of the designated s.o.b. took on a hint of a sparkle. “Leave it to me, O.”
Oliver put down his cup. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” he told his aide. “But, Steven?”
“Sir?”
“Be sly. I have the distinct impression that neither of them is as stupid as he looks-particularly the stupid-looking one.”
“Understood,” said Stahl.
“Good man,” said Oliver.