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the demons, of Beelzebub and Moloch.' He shook his head, disconsolate. 'Satan's nearly won, and he would have already except for one thing. God has a plan for Salt Harvest. A master plan, a divinely inspired plan! Do you want to hear it?'

Yes, indeed. The boldest of them were three-quarters of the way down the aisle, waggling their hands overhead, praising God and begging His guidance.

'Salt Harvest! Listen to the name. It's a natural name, an advertising man's dream of organic purity, a name that bespeaks the bounty of the sea and of God, redolent of Christian virtue and tasty gumbos. How many people live here?'

They argued briefly, settling on a consensus figure of between fifteen and eighteen thousand.

'And things aren't going too well, are they? The economy's depressed, the cannery's shut down, the kids are moving away. Am I right?'

'Now bear with me, brothers and sisters. Hear me out, because like every great plan this one's so simple it might sound foolish until you get used to it. But imagine! Eighteen thousand Christian souls united in a common enterprise, all their resources pooled, digging for every last cent, competing with Satan for the consumer dollar and the souls of the diners. You've got everything you need! Cannery, shrimp boats, good men and women, and God on your side. Salt Harvest. Not a town. A chain of franchise restaurants coast to coast. I'm not talking about a dispensary of poisoned meat, a Burger Chef, a Wendy's, a Sambo's. No! We'll stuff them full of Gulf Shrimp and lobster, burgers made from the finest Argentine beef. We'll outcook and undersell Satan and his minions, drive them into ruin. Instead of pimply, dope-smoking punks, we'll staff our units with Christian converts, and in no time our logo, the sign of the fish and the cross, will not only be familiar as a symbol of God's love but of gracious dining and quality cuisine. We'll snip a page from Satan's book and have a playland for the kids. They'll enter through the Pearly Gates, ride Ferris wheels with winged clouds for cars, cavort with actors dressed as cute angels and maybe even the Messiah Himself. A chapel in the rear, ordained ministers on duty twenty-four hours a day. Every unit will shine with a holy beacon winking out the diamond light of Jesus Christ, and soon the golden arches will topple, the giant fried chicken buckets will fill with rainwater and burst, and we'll bulldoze them under and build the Heavenly City in their place! Oh, there've been Congregationalists and Baptists and Methodists, but we'll have something new. The first truly franchised religion! That's real salvation, brothers and sisters. Economic and spiritual at the same time. Hallelujah!'

'Hallelujah!' Their chorus was less enthused than before; some of them weren't quite sold on his idea.

'Praise the Lord!'

'Praise the Lord!' They were coming round again, and after a few more repetitions they were held back from the stage by the thinnest of restraints. A man in a seersucker suit stumbled along the aisle, keening, almost a whistling noise like a teakettle about to boil, and fell on all fours, his face agonized, reaching out to Donnell.

Overwhelmed with disgust, Donnell said, 'I could sell you sorry fuckers anything, couldn't I?'

They weren't sure they had heard correctly; they looked at each other, puzzled, asking what had been said.

'I could sell you sorry fuckers anything,' he repeated, 'as long as it had a bright package and was wrapped around a chewy nugget of fear. I could be your green-eyed king. But it would bore me to be the salvation of cattle like you. Take my advice, though. Don't buy the crap that's slung into your faces by two-bit wart-healers!' He jabbed his cane at Papa Salvatino, who stood open-mouthed in the aisle, a Utter of paper cups and fans and Bibles spreading out from his feet. 'Find your own answers, your own salvation. If you can't do that,' said Donnell, 'then to Hell with you.'

He took a faltering step backward. His fascination with the crowd had dulled, and the arrogant confidence inspired by his voice was ebbing. He became aware again of his tenuous position. The crowd was massing back against the tent walls, once more afraid, in turmoil, a clot of darkness sprouting arms and legs, heaving in all directions. Whispers, then a babble, angry shouts.

'Devil!' someone yelled, and a man countered, 'He ain't the Devil! He was curin' Alice Grimeaux's boy!' But someone else, his voice hysterical,