“I do. But if the situation worries you as much as you indicate, doesn’t it really warrant bringing in the police?”
“Perhaps eventually.” Morgan nodded. “But we — Barney, me, the other church leaders — thought that we’d try an alternative first.”
“All right. But there are a couple things you should know from the start. First, Mr. Wolfe doesn’t come cheap, and—”
“We are prepared to meet all but the most exorbitant demands.” You had to give the man credit; he raised pomposity to an art form.
“And you may well find Mr. Wolfe’s demands exorbitant,” I told him. “But second, and this you can’t do a damn thing about, he also is far from the world’s biggest fan of organized religion — regardless of who’s doing the organizing. Now that I’ve said that, don’t ever make the mistake of trying to duel with him over biblical quotes; he knows that book better than I know the batting averages of the last Mets championship team. And believe me, I can give you those figures right down to earned run averages.”
Morgan passed a handkerchief across his dewy forehead and sighed. “So are you suggesting that we look elsewhere for aid?”
“Not necessarily. But I do feel you should know exactly how the cards lie, and frankly, I’m not sure you have openers. However, Mr. Wolfe will be in the office in twelve minutes, and I’ll discuss the matter with him then. How can I reach you?”
Morgan reached into the breast pocket of his suitcoat and, after some fumbling, produced a calling card, a tasteful buff-colored number with his name in the center, the church’s in the lower left corner, and the phone number lower right.
“Just for the record,” I asked, “what’s your role at the tabernacle?”
“Business manager,” he sniffed. “A ‘Mr. Inside,’ if you will, while Barney of course is ‘Mr. Outside.’ He’s our star, as it should be. He preaches almost every Sunday, and he’s the one the TV audience sees. I’m just a paper-pusher back in the office.” He smiled modestly — or maybe he wanted it to appear modest.
“One more thing,” I told him. “I’d like to keep these notes, just long enough to show them to Mr. Wolfe. They may help pique his interest. I promise I’ll return them to you intact — whether or not Mr. Wolfe takes the case.”
Morgan looked at the notes doubtfully, then shrugged. “I didn’t really intend to leave them. Well... all right, if you promise that I’ll get them back.”
“I promise. Do you want a receipt?”
“No, no, your word is more than good enough, Mr. Goodwin,” he said, not sounding as if he meant it.
“Okay, then this is all I need for now,” I told him as I stood up.
He also got to his feet, looking uncertain. “When will I hear from you?”
“Today. Will you be in your office?”
He took thirty words to say he would, and I hustled him out as politely as possible, all the while reassuring him I would call him before day’s end. I didn’t like the odds of Wolfe accepting a commission from Morgan and Bay as clients. After all, as I had pointed out none too subtly to Morgan, Wolfe was about as likely to work for a church as he was to send Fritz out for a Quarter-Pounder for dinner. But I did have one bargaining chip with the Big Guy: The almighty bank balance was in serious need of nourishment.
Two
Back at my desk after letting Morgan out, I still had five minutes before Wolfe’s arrival from his morning séance with the blossoms. I put the time to use by calling Lon Cohen at the New York Gazette.
Lon has no title at the paper that I’ve ever heard of or seen in print, and his name is not on the paper’s masthead. But he occupies an office next door to the publisher’s on the twentieth floor, and he seems to know more about what goes on in New York, both aboveboard and below, than the city council and the police department combined. He has provided useful information to us on at least a gross of occasions, and we’ve reciprocated by giving the Gazette at least as many scoops. And, not incidentally, he also plays a mean hand of stud poker, as I rediscover to my sorrow almost every Thursday night at Saul Panzer’s apartment, where several of us have gathered with the pasteboards for years.
“Morning,” I said after he’d answered his phone with the usual bark of his name. “Got a minute for a friend?”
“I haven’t got a minute for my mother, let alone the mother of my children. What makes you special?”
“Ah, a bit on the testy side today, are we? You shouldn’t be terse with someone who so thoughtfully lined your pockets with lettuce at the gaming table a week ago this very day.”
“I did have a pretty fair night, didn’t I?” Lon responded, sounding almost mellow. “All right, what do you need to know? And what’s in it for me?”
“Now there’s a cynical attitude,” I said. “See if I raise tonight when you’ve got a pair showing.”
“Archie, I’d just love to go on bantering all morning, but at the risk of sounding like somebody from The Front Page, we’ve got a paper to put out.”
“And a fine paper it is, me lad. Okay, what can you tell me in a few well-chosen sentences about the Reverend Barnabas Bay and his church over on Staten Island?”
“Bay? He’s got a reputation for being smart, damned smart. Comes originally from someplace down south, maybe Georgia. He’s built a big following here in just a few years, and a huge building. Its name is a little too show bizzy for me — the Tabernacle of the Silver Spire. It’s got that name because the church, which is nondenominational, is topped by a metal spire, stainless steel or aluminum, I suppose, that dwarfs everything else around it. Controversial when it was built. But, at least according to our religion writer, Bay’s several cuts above the televangelists who’ve supplied us with so many juicy headlines in the none-too-distant past. By all accounts, he’s honest, earnest, and one hell of a spellbinder in the pulpit.”
“Any hint of scandal?”
“Not that’s come my way. No personal stuff I’ve ever heard about. He’s got a wife who’s a knockout, and I think four kids. About two years back, a handful of churches on the island and over in Jersey complained that they’d lost parishioners to him, but that happens all the time. Might just be that he’s giving ’em something they weren’t getting from their local pastors.”
“The guy sounds too good to be true.”
“That’s exactly what I told Walston — he’s our religion writer — after reading the Sunday piece he did on Bay a while back. But Walston swears that’s the real Bay. And the padre puts his money — or the church’s money — where his mouth is. The Silver Spire has set up several shelters for battered women and the homeless in Manhattan, and the church supplies all the money and staffing to support them, the works. Okay, I’ve given you more than a few sentences; what can you give me, as in, one: Why is Wolfe interested in Bay? And, two: Does the good reverend have feet of clay after all?”
“I don’t have answers, because I don’t know myself — honest. But you can rest assured that if anything happens, you’ll be hearing from us.”
“Yeah, and the check’s in the mail, right?” Lon growled, signing off with a mumble that sounded remotely like “good-bye.” After cradling the receiver, I just got the day’s mail opened and stacked on Wolfe’s blotter before the groaning of the elevator heralded his arrival from on high.
“Good morning, Archie, did you sleep well?” he asked as he detoured around the desk and settled into the chair constructed specifically to support his seventh of a ton. It’s a question he’s asked on thousands of mornings.
“Like a baby,” I answered, as I have on thousands of mornings.