"Precious and productive be your passage!" the congregation responded.
"Hear the words that will guide you!"
"We hear and heed and hearken!"
"Now ... who wants to score?"
Dov sat bolt upright. As soon as the Reverend Everything uttered those words, the aisle filled with the bodies of the faithful, and mighty admirable bodies they were. L.A. was famous for annually exceeding its production quota of Pretty People, but the Reverend Everything's temple seemed to have cornered the market on that commodity.
It was bumper-to-bumper time on the Silicone Highway, and those who had not come forward took up a rhythmic chant of "Score! Score! Score! Score!" seldom encountered outside of football arenas. This had all the earmarks of an impending orgy, and for the life of him, Dov could not remember whether or not he was wearing decent underwear. (It was clean, yes, but that was not the point. Some men went out and got embarrassing tattoos when they got drunk. Dov bought comic novelty underwear, the sort with witty mottos like Warning: Heavy Equipment, or pictures of happy gorillas with their paws disappearing inside the fly.)
His qualms were soon put to rest by his host. The Reverend Everything made a slashing movement with one finger across his throat and the mob fell into immediate, total silence. A thread of piped-in organ music sent up a soft, soothing rendition of the theme from Fame in funeral dirge tempo to underscore the words he spoke.
"My dear, dear fellow star-wanderers, your response is wonderfully gratifying. To think that my teachings have yielded such luscious fruit! We are a product of universal love, and we are placed on this earth to seek, to learn, and perhaps to know the reason for that divine product placement. We are all One with the universe, but one is the loneliest number. One can only win us the game of life if life itself fails to score, and we all know, life scores bigtime. It is therefore our mission to discover what our own lifescore must be and then to get out there and make that point spread! To see so many of you here, come to report on your latest successes, makes me realize that in a way, I, too, have added to my lifescore through you. And you have thus added to your own lifescore through me."
He went on in the same vein for about the length of one Super Bowl commercial break before having the lined-up congregants come up onto the stage with him one by one to announce their lifescores for the week. They spoke of audition appointments granted, screenplays written, producers "not completely disinterested" in their next project, even contracts signed. He had words of praise and encouragement for each of them, words which inevitably ended with: "And do you truly value what you have achieved through our spiritual partnership?"
Well, of course they did.
"Oh, how we all want to believe that! For it is only through our continued belief in you that the veils of Illusion are parted and your eyes can see clearly the ultimate lifescore that will bring you joy in this world and serenity in the next."
Well, of course they wanted to make sure that the whole congregation believed in them.
"If only there were some small way, some token gesture you could make here, now, today, before all of us, to show proof of your sincerity, that our belief in you might endure."
Well, of course there was.
Dov watched as each successful lifescorer passed from the Reverend Everything's hands into the waiting embrace of the Temple Maidens, a bevy of Palm Pilot-bearing beauties who took the happy congregant aside and duly recorded the "token gesture" of a funds transfer into the Reverend Everything's coffers. Even knowing that a healthy chunk of those funds would wind up in the hands of E. Godz, Inc., Dov still felt a touch of moral queasiness.
And yet ...
And yet, despite the Reverend's flashy, trashy, soundbite showmanship, his line of spiritual gobbledegook that was little more than a recycled, regurgitated, retread mishmosh of bargain basement Zen and yard sale Taoism, his scarily efficient methods for fleecing the flock, Dov still sensed a great emanation of magical power coming from the congregation.
They believe this stuff! he realized. They actually believe in it, and true belief's one of the biggest sources of real power I know. Can I really fault the Reverend Everything for knowing his customers, giving them what they want, even what they need? Sure, most of them have the attention spans of kelp, but the Reverend's allowed for it, changing the packaging on the same old product as much as he has to, to hold onto his audience. He's sharp, they're happy, and E. Godz, Inc. shares the profits, but ...
... but do we really need to get rich like this?
Do I need to become the head of the corporation by getting someone like him as a backer? Even if this whole thing didn't smell funny, would I want to owe anything to the Reverend Everything?
The services were still in full swing when Dov crept up behind his host, murmured something about an emergency call on his pager, and slipped away.
Chapter Ten
Always one to make sure his bridges were in good repair behind him, Dov made it a point to call Reverend Everything from a coffee shop in L.A. International Airport. It was a very cordial conversation. The Reverend was all kindness and understanding, and he quite agreed that it would be for the best if the two of them were to continue and conclude their business meeting another time, via teleconference. He assured Dov that he would have his entire congregation pray for Edwina's recovery or peaceful passing, depending on what the universe had in mind for her. This little chat left Dov with a warm and cozy feeling, although that might have had less to do with the Reverend Everything and more to do with the fact that he had accidentally slopped a little of his coffee down the front of his pants.
Dov was still blotting at his fly with a wad of paper napkins when Ammi set up a frightful row from inside his shirt.
"Now what?" Dov demanded after pulling the obstreperous trinket out into the light.
"Oh, nothing much," Ammi drawled. "I was just wondering how much of your mind you lost, running out on the Reverend Everything the way you just did. You think that guy didn't see right through you and your little 'Mercy me to gracious, I simply must run, I left the cat on the stove!' ploy? You think he's a man who enjoys being dumped just because you got all schoolmarmy and—dare I say it?—ethical all of a sudden?"
"Dumped? For pity's sake, Ammi, you're exaggerating. He and I are just business associates, not lovers! Do you have to describe it like I broke off our engagement?"
"You did leave him waiting at the altar," the little ornament replied. "Besides, this is L.A.: Business is love, and love is business, at least in the media industries. When you left right in the middle of the Reverend Everything's lifescore spectacular, it was a slap in the face. Worse, it was a kick to the ego. You know how any performer feels about audience members who walk out while they're on stage? You hurt his feelings, except he's too much of a pro to show it."
"Come on, he was perfectly okay with my leaving. I told him it was an emergency."
"Why didn't you just tell him you had to wash your hair, or that you hoped the two of you could still be friends? Oh! Did you tell him 'It's not you, it's me?' Very important to say that. It's not an official breakup otherwise." Ammi batted his lashless eyelids and, in a bad imitation of Dov's voice, added: "Darling, it's not fair to keep you tied down like this. I think we should both see other religions."
"Hey, I don't care what you have to say, I don't think I alienated him at all. And so what if I did? I don't even know if I want his support."
"You'll want it plenty once your sister grabs it out from under you," Ammi said sagely. "Pecunia non olet, baby: Money does not stink, and neither does power, no matter how they're generated. I'll bet Peez doesn't even hold her nose while she's signing the Reverend Everything onto her side. That's when you'll be sorry, but by then it'll be too late and too bad."