“Skirts do make it easier for me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Tell me more about the camps. I might be able to trick her into going to a camp.”

“Well,” the young woman began. “There are a few of them, and they run for twenty-eight days. There are three sessions every summer. We have camps in Texas, Colorado, Ohio and Pennsylvania.”

“None closer than that?”

“There was one upstate,” she said, lowering her voice as if imparting a secret. “But it closed down ten years ago.”

“Upstate New York would have been perfect. Why did it close?”

The young woman raised her empty hands. “I heard...”

Kingsley leaned in close, very close, as close as this poor plain virgin girl had probably ever been to a man.

“What did you hear?” he asked, putting his mouth at her ear and letting his breath tickle her neck.

“I heard a camper died there,” she whispered. “Suicide. It wasn’t Reverend Fuller’s fault at all. The investigation cleared him and the church of any wrongdoing. You see, suicide is nobody’s fault but the person who commits it. But still, they shut the camp down.”

“That’s too bad.”

“But there’s still Pennsylvania. Do you think your friend would like to go to camp in western Pennsylvania?”

“I think she would like it as much as I would like it.” Kingsley would rather have his testicles soldered to his eyeballs than go to a sexual reorienting camp in western Pennsylvania.

“Oh, good.” Chastity smiled broadly. “Then wait here. I’ll get you some brochures.”

She walked off, and Kingsley pondered the possibility of seducing her. Fucking a girl named Chastity—how poetic. It would probably be good for her, give her a taste for what the world had to offer outside the walls of her church. Then again, why set her up for a lifetime of unreasonable expectations?

Chastity returned with a sheaf of brochures and a hardcover book.

“I brought this for you,” Chastity said. “Miraculous Womanhood by Lucy Fuller. Wonderful book. Changed my life. Maybe it’ll help your friend.”

“You can keep it,” Kingsley said. “I’ve already read this one.”

Out on the street he found another taxi, and once inside he flipped through the brochures the girl had given him. One detailed the work of the ministry. Reverend Fuller’s church focused on personal sin and accountability. Kingsley took that to mean the church didn’t actually do anything to improve the world. Lots of programs for people to quit adultery, quit drinking, quit smoking even, and programs for girls who were pregnant out of wedlock. He assumed they talked them out of abortions, had them give up their babies for adoption and then promptly forgot the mothers existed. He didn’t see anything about soup kitchens or homeless shelters. Søren would likely have something to say about that.

He should call Søren. He spoke over a dozen languages. Maybe one of them was fundamentalist Christian.

Back at the town house, he found Sam making phone calls with his red book of names open in front of her.

“We will need vast quantities of alcohol,” Sam said into the phone. “The good shit.”

Kingsley snapped his fingers to get her attention. “Who’s coming tonight?”

She held up one finger.

“One person is coming?”

She pointed at him. Of course he was coming tonight. Several times.

“You should come, too,” he mouthed. She held up a sheet of names, confirmations for the party. In red she’d circled the names of half a dozen women. He raised his eyebrow at her in a question.

“Targets,” she whispered.

Kingsley laughed, and Sam handed him the list of names. It would be a packed house tonight. Good. For the first time in a long time he felt like celebrating. On his way out the door he heard Sam snapping her fingers. She put a hand over the receiver.

“Your priest called. You’re supposed to call him back,” she said before returning to her own phone call. As he walked out of the room he heard her on the phone with the caterer.

“We’re having an ‘I Don’t Have AIDS’ party tonight, and we need food for a hundred people. Caviar? Good call.”

In his bedroom he found that Signore Vitale had a suit and some shirts delivered. Sam had put them on his bed with a note that said, “Wear the suit and even I might consider spreading for you. I won’t do it, but I might consider doing it.” She had underlined consider three times.

Even her considering spreading for him was better than not considering it. He’d wear whatever Sam liked if it made her happy.

He sat on his bed and picked up the phone.

“Tell me it’s good news,” Søren said when Kingsley greeted him.

“It’s good news,” he said. “All good.”

Kingsley could hear the relief in Søren’s breath all the way from Connecticut to Manhattan.

“Gratias tibi, Deus,” Søren breathed in Latin. “I have been praying nonstop for two weeks. If you ever scare me like this again—”

“I won’t,” Kingsley said. “I have to get tested again in six months. And six months after that.”

“And?” Søren prompted.

“And I have to use condoms unless I’m monogamous, which I’m not.” Kingsley sighed heavily.

“Exactly.”