"Praise the Lord," Marion replied, and went into the ballroom and took a mimeographed program, which included the words to the hymns and spirituals on the program, from a folding chair.
He was a little uncomfortable at first but the music was lovely, and the sincerity and enthusiasm of the singers rather touching, and after a few minutes, he was quite caught up in the whole thing.
He had always liked "Rock of Ages," and other what he thought of as traditional hymns, and he had never before had the opportunity to not only hear Negro spirituals, but to join in with the singers.
Afterward, when he went to his room, he wondered if perhaps somehow the last two hours, which certainly could be interpreted as worship, would now give him an insight into Haggai 2:17.
He read it again, standing up at the desk where he had left the Bible open to it: "17.1 smote you with blasting and with mildew and with hail in all the labours of your hands; yet ye turned not to me, saith the Lord."
He thought perhaps he had an insight. Viewed from one perspective, it was possible, even likely, that it was what the Lord might be saying to the Vice President, rather than directed to him.
That made a certain sense vis-a-vis "blasting," but while one might be smitten with "blasting" and "hail," being smitten with mildew made no sense. Mildew was what grew in the grouting around the tiles of a bathroom.
He undressed and took a shower, and then took the Bible to bed with him. But even after praying for insight, Haggai 2:17 made no sense to him at all.
Marion Claude Wheatley dropped off to sleep, propped up against the headboard, with the Holy Bible open on his lap.
Mr. Vincenzo Savarese, Mr. Paulo Cassandro, Mr. Gian-Carlo Rosselli, and Mr. Ricco Baltazari were seated at a table in the rear of Ristorante Alfredo. A screen had been erected around the table, to keep the customers from staring. No place had been set for Mr. Baltazari, the proprietor, who thought it might be considered disrespectful to break bread with Mr. Savarese uninvited.
"I like your Chicken Breast Alfredo," Mr. Savarese said to Mr. Baltazari, "how is it made?"
"It's really very simple, Mr. S.," Mr. Baltazari said. "Some oregano, some thyme, some chervil, a little sweet paprika for color, you grind them up, then add maybe a half cup olive oil; you marinate maybe an hour, then you broil, and then, at the last minute, a slice of cheese on top, and that's it."
"Not only is it nice, I see by the price on the menu that it probably makes a nice profit."
"Absolutely, chicken is always good that way. I'm pleased that you're pleased."
"Ricco, I have to make a decision," Mr. Savarese said. "I want your advice."
"I'm honored that you would ask me, Mr. S.," Mr. Baltazari said.
"You understand that I am under an obligation to some friends in Baltimore," Mr. Savarese said. "An obligation that I would like to meet."
"I understand," Mr. Baltazari said.
"They telephoned me just before I came here," Mr. Savarese said. " They are very anxious to make the shipment we talked about. Their man is waiting word that it's all right to come to Philadelphia."
Mr. Baltazari nodded his understanding.
"Gian-Carlo and Paulo tell me that they think everything is arranged with our new friend at the airport," Mr. Savarese said. "And on one hand, I trust their judgment. But on the other hand, I am a cautious man. I am always concerned when things seem to be going too easily. You understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Savarese, I understand."
"There are two things that concern me here," Mr. Savarese said. " One may be as important as the other. We think we have this policeman' s cooperation.Think. It would be very embarrassing for me if he changed his mind at the last minute. And costly. If the shipment was lost, I would, as a man of honor, have to make good the loss. You understand?"
"I understand, Mr. S."
"The second thing that concerns me is the possibility that if he is not what Paulo tells me he believes he is, that, in other words, if he went either to the Narcotics Division or to the Federal Narcotics people… You understand?"
"Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said very carefully, "that word never even came up. Narcotics."
"Mr. S.," Mr. Cassandro added, "he thinks the shipment is money."
"So you have told me," Mr. Savarese said. "My question is, would he be tempted by that much money? We certainly could not complain to the authorities that we had lost a large sum of money, could we?"
"He's not that smart, Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said.
"Yes. He is not smart. That worries me. He is a fool, a fool without money. Fools without money do foolish, desperate things."
"I see what you mean, Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said.
"We could test him," Mr. Savarese said. "That is one option. I could tell my associates in Baltimore that in the interests of safety, we should have nothing of interest to the authorities in the bag, just to be sure."
"That's an idea," Mr. Baltazari said.
"But that would make me look as if I don't have things under control here, wouldn't it?"
"I can see what you mean," Mr. Baltazari said seriously.
"Or, we can take the chance. I will tell Gian-Carlo to telephone Baltimore and tell them everything is in order. So my question to you, Ricco, is what should I do?"
Mr. Baltazari thought it over for a very long moment before he replied.
"Mr. S.," he said carefully. "You asked me, and I will tell you what I honestly think. I think we have to trust Gian-Carlo's and Paulo's judgment. If they say the cop is going to be all right, so far as I'm concerned, that's it."
Mr. Baltazari felt a flush of excitement.
I handled that perfect, he thought. If I had said, "I go for the test," that would have meant that I thought Gian-Carlo and Paulo were wrong, that they were going to get Mr. S. in trouble. That would have really pissed them off. This way, they set it up, it fucks up somehow, it's their fault, and I'm out of it.
Mr. Savarese nodded, then put another piece of Chicken Breast Alfredo into his mouth and chewed it slowly.
"I thank you for your honest opinion," he said, finally. "So this is what we're going to do. I'm going to have Gian-Carlo call the people in Baltimore and tell them to go ahead."
"There's not going to be a problem with the cop, Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said. "He needs to get out from under them markers, and he needs the cash so bad, he's pissing his pants."
"Give Ricco the information," Mr. Savarese said.
Mr. Rosselli handed Mr. Baltazari a sheet of notepaper. On it was written, "Eastern 4302. 9:45."
"That's from San Juan," Mr. Savarese explained. "Tomorrow night, it arrives. The shipment will be in a blue American Tourister plastic suitcase. On both sides of the suitcase will be two strips of adhesive tape with shine on it."
Mr. Baltazari then asked the question foremost in his mind. He held up the piece of paper with "Eastern 4302" on it. "Mr. S., what am I supposed to do with this?"
"I value your judgment, Ricco," Mr. Savarese said. "I want you to give that to the cop. Tell him about the tape with the shine on the blue American Tourister suitcase. Look at his eyes. Make up your mind, is he reliable or not? If it smells like bad fish, then we do the test. It'll be a little embarrassing for me to have to call Baltimore, but there'll be plenty of time if you see the cop when he gets off duty, and better a little embarrassment than taking a loss like that, or worse. You agree?"
"Right, Mr. S.," Mr. Baltazari said.
His stomach suddenly hurt.
"You go see him after midnight, at that woman's apartment, and then you call Gian-Carlo. If you make the judgment that everything will be all right, then that's it. If he sees something wrong, GianCarlo, then you call me at the house, understand?"