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could be only one way of doing things—the Arthur Crenshaw way.
    But Father Daniel Fitzpatrick was here tonight to let him know that there were a few folks around who didn’t think Senator Crenshaw had all the answers, and that he was downright wrong when it came to the Domicile Plan.
    Here he comes, Dan thought as the glass door was held open for Crenshaw by a broad-shouldered Hispanic with dark glasses and “security” written all over him. 
    A cheer went up from the onlookers as the senator stepped outside.  Lots of normally liberal Manhattanites seemed enthralled with the man.  Dan put it down to his physical resemblance to Bill Clinton, but knew it went deeper than that.  The man was magnetic.
    And as the cheer rose, so did the chanting from Dan’s homeless.  Good for you, Harry, he thought.
    Crenshaw walked the gauntlet, shaking hands and smiling that smile.  When he came within half a dozen feet, Dan held up his placard and thrust it toward the senator to make sure he didn’t miss it.  The dark-skinned security man moved to push Dan back but Crenshaw stopped him.  He stared at the message, then looked Dan in the eye.
    “Is that directed at me?”
    Dan was momentarily taken aback by the man’s directness.  He’d expected to be ignored.  But he met the senator’s steely blue gaze with his own.
    “Yes, senator.  And at your out-of-sight-out-of-mind Domicile Plan.  You can’t lock the homeless up in camps and think that will solve the problem.”
    “I resent that,” Crenshaw said, his eyes flashing, his voice soft but forceful. 
    The crowd around the entrance had stopped cheering; they were listening instead.  Only the chanting of the homeless from behind the barricades disturbed the sudden silence.
    Dan was not prepared for this.  His mouth went dry; his voice was hoarse when he replied.  “And I think the homeless will resent being carted off to camps in the middle of nowhere.”
    “What’s you’re connection with the homeless, father?”
    “I run a kitchen for them downtown.”
    Crenshaw nodded.  “That’s very admirable.  My hat’s off to you.  But how many of their lives have you changed?”
    “I don’t under—”
    “How many have you gotten off the street and into some sort of self-supporting activity?”
    Dan had a feeling he was being maneuvered into a corner, but he had to answer—and truthfully.
    “I couldn’t say.  We barely have enough money to keep them fed.”
    “Exactly!  They need funds and there aren’t enough funds to go around.  That’s why we have to centralize our efforts to help them.”  He gestured to the crowd.  “Look around you, father.  See these people?  They support the Domicile Plan.  They’re all willing to put their money where their mouths are, because they’re going to pay for the Plan with their tax dollars.  But they want to see those dollars well spent.  Soup kitchens only perpetuate the problem—like giving a transfusion to a bleeding patient without sewing up the wound.”
    God, he’s good, Dan thought.  And he means every word.  He truly wants to help.  That’s what makes him so convincing.  But he’s still wrong!
    “I couldn’t agree more,” Dan said, “but concentration camps aren’t a moral alternative.”
    Senator Crenshaw’s eyes flashed with sudden anger.
    “You’re handy with the loaded terms, aren’t you, father.  And I’m sure you have a real talent for dishing out the soup on the breadline at your kitchen, but have you ever actually gone into a factory and worked to earn a single dime to pay for their shelter?  Or your own, for that matter?  Have you ever labored to grow a single grain of wheat or a single kernel of rice to feed them?  Or yourself?  Have you ever woven or cut or sewn a single stitch for their clothing?  Or for your own?  If you want to be a man of God, then limit your concerns to Godly things; but if you want to be a man of the people, then get out and sweat with them,