I resisted asking what Jesus was in for.
“In a lot of ways... in most ways, if I might brag a little... I have turned my life around. I serve the Lord and serve my black brothers and sisters. You know, I do a lot of traveling, Jack. When I’m home, with Marianne at my side, around me here at home, I might be tempted but I never give in. But when I’m on the road, spreading what I hope is a message of faith and freedom and non-violence, away sometimes for weeks... I have on occasion... slipped. With Ruth, her keen intelligence and her remarkable beauty...”
Not necessarily in that order.
“...I was too weak to resist. I’m struggling now, to hold onto my marriage. I told Ruth what we had just had to be over, that it could not go on, and she was hurt, of course... but at the same time she has been understanding. More than I could ever hope. But Marianne is still hurt, so terribly hurt, and I have so much rebuilding to do. So I tell you, frankly, that it’s a relief to see Ruth with a nice young man like yourself.”
Okay, this was a little creepy. He was basically saying, Thanks for fucking my girlfriend so I can maybe get back with my wife. But he had a way of making it sound noble. With that voice, and all that damn charisma, he could read you a grocery list and you’d say, “Right on, brother!”
I’d had enough of this, so I asked, “What are you working on so hard in your study?”
“What am I writing? My speech for Saturday. It’s so very important. Missouri could be in McGovern’s column, I just know it could. And the eyes of America will be on us — the media’s taking a great interest.” He sighed. “It’s just too bad such a dark cloud hangs over us now, what with André’s death.”
“He didn’t die of a heart attack, Raymond. His throat was slit. That was a drug deal gone wrong. With your background, surely you must know that.”
He nodded, his expression grave. “André saved my life in prison. Do you know what that feels like?”
His name was Bill Young.
“Yes,” I said.
“I tell you, André took the Lord into his heart, too. He was born again inside that terrible place. I thought he’d really straightened himself out, broken out of his personal prison. I’ve tried to help. Given him a place, a role, where he could become a different person, a good person.”
“But he stayed the same person, didn’t he, Raymond? I spotted him the first afternoon at the Coalition. In country...” Nam. “...I was around a lot of guys using, as you might suspect. And he had all the signs.”
Lloyd was shaking his head, not looking at me. “I know, I know... and his death will dredge up all of my past. Turn it from something I triumphed over into a wretched thing that will make people think I am still part of that world.”
“But you’re not?”
The question surprised him. Maybe hurt him.
“Of course not, Jack.” He swallowed, looked away. “But the timing is unfortunate. After the speech, it was my intention... well, never mind.”
“After the speech what?”
His shrug was barely perceptible. “I was about to clean house. Staffers have reported... suspicious behavior... and I’d resolved to let André go. And someone else has to go, too, but I’d rather not go into that. It’s too... hurtful.”
I knew who that someone must be.
“Raymond,” I said, “when you say you planned to cut them loose... would you have handed them over to the police or the federal authorities?”
“I would have cut ties with André and his co-conspirator. And I would have shared my suspicions with the authorities, yes. The sooner they could be stopped, the better. Street drugs are a kind of self-genocide for my people, Jack. The one thing my sorry background does for me is that I can speak with authority on this subject. When the presidential campaign is over... well, a major change will be made at the Coalition. That I promise you.”
He offered me his hand and I took it and shook it.
“Thank you, Jack,” he said, getting up. “I mean that most sincerely. And thank you for the frank talk.”
He put the empty Bud can in the trash and headed back to his study to work on the speech.
He was right to thank me.
I had decided not to kill him.
But somebody else wouldn’t be so lucky.
Fifteen
Three in the morning wasn’t the best time to take in St. Louis’ Forest Park, its fourteen-hundred or so acres home to several museums, a planetarium and a famous zoo — unless a lack of company was what you were after. The municipal theater would be empty, the golf courses and tennis courts and boathouse, too. No one was likely to be taking in any of the statues or paying respects at memorials, either.
That made me a rare moonlight visitor to the park’s Korean War Memorial, a giant floral clock maybe thirty-five feet in diameter, formed by thousands and thousands of colorful flowers, mums and sunflowers and more, looking muted in the full moon’s glow, like a hand-tinted photograph, and spelling out below
Curving around the memorial were a number of stone benches to sit and reflect. Also a number of substantial evergreens to stand behind and wait.
Nearby was the fifty-foot high, glass-walled, steel-skeletoned, stone-fronted Art Deco greenhouse known as the Jewel Box, a big tourist destination and frequent site for weddings; but not at three in morning. My instructions had been to enter the park from Hampton Avenue, take a right on Wells Drive to a round-about where the Jewel Box would be on my left. That promise had been kept. The money would be waiting at four A.M. That promise, not just yet.
Of course, I was an hour early.
Ninety minutes ago or so, I’d still been at the Reverend’s home in the Ville, seated at the kitchen table, watching that back door as promised. Two more cans of Pepsi were in me, and I was a little caffeine-wired.
I had seen Deon stumble into the TV room, yawning, half an hour before. Now, after a good healthy piss, I checked on him, and found him sacked out on his belly on a sofa that was barely as big as he was. It looked like he’d been dropped there from a plane.
I peeked in the study, where even more crumpled-up pages surrounded the wastebasket, and found Reverend Lloyd also asleep on a sofa, a brown leather one; he was on his back, like a guy in a coffin, only breathing. How easy it would have been to pop him.
Terrell was still in the dining room, leaned forward with his big head on his big arms like a kid resting in class, snoring more softly than you’d expect. On the TV, Mantan Moreland was driving his boss around (“Mr. Chan! Mr. Chan!”), and one of the not-as-smart-as-Mantan sons. Must be showing those late every night.
I slipped out the back, leaving the door unlocked, which was not exactly stellar bodyguard work but I wanted to be able to return. With luck nobody would notice I’d been gone, and if they did, I’d come up with some kind of story. Like I’d heard somebody out back and followed them somewhere or maybe went for a wee-hours breakfast or some bull.
The first phone booth I spotted, I pulled the Impala over and made the call to the Broker. No flunky this time — the man himself picked up on the first ring. He gave me the drop location and the payoff instructions. They were simple enough.
Now I was tucked behind a tree, smelling pine needles, with my Impala parked along one of the smaller curving roadways about a quarter mile away. Of course I’d checked the bench the money was supposed to be left under, not expecting to find anything and I didn’t. Though it varied, what typically went down was the client arrived with the cash no more than an hour (and often as little as ten or fifteen minutes) before I was to pick it up. Make the drop and get the hell out.