Third Strike by Philip R. Craig Page A

Portuguese and Latino descent, many of them Brazilian. They, like the practitioners of every ethnic or religious group of which I was aware, apparently couldn’t agree about what constituted the True Faith and therefore worshipped at a lot of different churches, varying from Protestant evangelical ones to others preaching forms of ultraconservative Catholicism. As a Baptist friend once told me, “If you have four Baptists, you have at least three churches.”
    Zapata’s church was reportedly an institution of his own making, combining elements from various more traditional forms of Christian worship, chiefly Roman Catholicism. I presumed he’d taken his title as Father from the latter.
    Gossip had it that Zapata had been born in Brazil but, like many South Americans, had only arrived in the United States after wandering and working, and in his case preaching, his way through Central America and Mexico. In any case, he led two services on Sundays, one in Portuguese in the morning and one in Spanish in the evening, thereby saving his different congregations from the dangers of nodding off while listening to sermons in languages they didn’t understand. It was a wise idea, I thought, remembering the Bible story of the young man named Eutychus who, when listening to Paul preach, had gone to sleep and fallen out of a third-floor window and been killed, thus becoming the first person officially recorded as bored to death by a sermon. For this I had personally canonized him, making him St. Eutychus.
    When he wasn’t leading his flock, Father Zapata ran a company called Zapata Landscaping and was doing good business. He owned half a dozen trucks and a couple of backhoes adorned with the company logo, and he had several crews of workers armed with the hand tools they needed to establish and care for gardens, lawns, hedges, trees, and shrubs.
    Since it was Saturday, I caught up with him overseeing the work at a big new house not far from the Katama airport. He was a medium-sized man who appeared to be in his thirties. He wore a billed Red Sox cap and a white shirt over khaki work pants. He was calling out some orders in Portuguese when I approached, but switched immediately to only slightly accented English when I asked if he was Father Zapata. He was one of those people whose hands moved when they talked, rising, falling, constantly gesturing. I’d often wondered if such people could speak at all if they had to keep their hands in their pockets.
    â€œI am Georgio Zapata,” he said, and he put out one of those bronzed hands.
    I took it. He had a good grip, but not one of those that intentionally tests the hand it meets.
    I gave him my name and said, “Any relation to Emiliano?”
    He smiled and shook his head. “Not that I know of, though I wouldn’t mind if I was.”
    â€œDo you share his views about politics and economics?”
    He spread those talkative hands. “Emiliano fought for the poor, and they are my people as well. I try to lift them up even though Jesus said they will always be among us. My sermons are mostly along the lines of loving God and following the golden rule.”
    â€œIt’s a better rule than most,” I said. “I’ve been asked to investigate the death of Eduardo Alvarez. Since I don’t know much about him, and since he was one of your parishioners, I hoped to talk with you about the sort of man he was.”
    Zapata’s friendly smile lingered on his face. “He was an ordinary man, like all of us. He will be greatly missed.”
    â€œHis wife described him as almost a saint.”
    Zapata’s voice was kind. “I have known many men and women, but no saints.”
    I said, “It’s popularly believed that Eduardo killed himself by accident when he blew up the engine of the Trident . His wife says that’s impossible because he didn’t believe in violence and would never have done such a thing. What do