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profits,
which he plowed back into the company, which in turn yielded even larger
profits. When Microsoft bought him out for an ungodly sum, he traded the
corporate rat race for politics. He didn't start small. He challenged an
incumbent for one of his native California's U.S. Senate seats and won. Now he
had his eye on the Presidency. He hadn't declared himself yet, but no one
seemed to have any doubt that he'd be stumping in New Hampshire when the next
round of Presidential primaries rolled around.
    A widower
now--his wife had died five years ago--with one grown son, he was a formidable
candidate. The Born-Again line of moral righteousness and family values he
spouted guaranteed him a built-in core constituency. But he needed a broader
base if he was aiming for national office, and he was steadily building that
with his speech-making and his strong-featured good looks. Especially his
speech-making. Crenshaw was a mesmerizing orator, whether from prepared text or
off the cuff. In unguarded moments even Dan
had found himself nodding in agreement with much of his rhetoric.
    But when he
listened carefully, Dan tapped into an undercurrent that told him this was a
man who had quickly become extremely powerful in his own little world and had
grown used to having things his own way, a man of monstrous self-esteem who
knew-- knew --he had the answers, who believed there 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 Arthur 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 resemblance to Pat Riley, the Knicks' former coach, 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?" he said. 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
your connection with the homeless, Father?" he said.
    "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