The Prophet of Queens

by Glenn Kleier

  Ariel brightened, then darkened. “The catch?”

  The men shifted, and Tia exhaled. “Before he’ll fork it over, he wants to meet you. See you on screen. He insists.”

  Ariel glared at the floor, and Max said, “It’s no big deal, he’s just hedging his bet.”

  “It’s a big deal to me,” Ariel snapped, feeling her face heat. “I told you, no more. And regardless, it won’t work. Thornton’s met me, he’s seen me as I really am. He’d recognize me.”

  Stan said, “We considered that, and we came up with a work-around. We’ll simply adjust the lights and camera aperture till it’s too bright for him to make you out.”

  Max added, “Thornton has no idea what an angel looks like. He’ll be awestruck, he’ll cough up the tape, and we’re done.”

  Tia said, “Our concern is, he’ll recognize your eyes and voice.”

  Not an issue. Ariel had always been too self-conscious to look the man in the eye, much less speak to him.

  Max said. “This is your last performance, we swear. Your curtain call. We get the tape and the election, and Tia gets her mom back.”

  Chapter 113

  Saturday, November 1, 8:28 pm, Queens

  “Your meatloaf is deee-lish,” Ivy gushed.

  “Everything,” Scott seconded, helping himself to more mashed potatoes.

  Mrs. Steiner smiled, hiding her tension. Tonight wasn’t what she had in mind when she’d extended her invitation. She’d planned a relaxed dinner catching up on her guest’s adventures, taking dessert over the debate. She and Ivy shared an avid interest in politics.

  But that went out the window after her talk with Joe Butterfield this morning. Learning of Ivy’s condition, Mrs. Steiner’s goal now was to arrange a meeting between daughter and dad—and without disclosing its sensitive purpose. She was uncertain how to proceed. Fortunately, Scott’s new friend, Kassandra, couldn’t be here. Such a delicate discussion couldn’t take place with another party present. Mrs. Steiner bided her time, waiting for an appropriate opening.

  She asked Scott, “So, what’s Ellen Shackleton like in person?”

  Ivy said, “If only he could remember. He was too stoned.”

  Mrs. Steiner laughed. “Well, you sure stirred things up. Especially for your fans outside.”

  The chanting and songs were constant, louder than ever.

  “That’s all about to end,” Scott said.

  Ivy jumped in. “Reverend Penbrook Thornton’s coming to visit us tomorrow!”

  Mrs. Steiner was surprised. “Here? In your apartment?”

  Scott nodded.

  “My goodness, it sounds important.”

  He nodded again, adding, “Once this is over, we’ll have one heck of a story to tell you.”

  Scott’s dealings with Reverend Thornton and the Lord were no doubt sacrosanct, and Mrs. Steiner didn’t press. She made a mental note to sweep the foyer.

  “So much excitement,” she said. “But then what? What will you do after all this, Scott?”

  He replied without hesitation. “Look for a job.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard for you now with your celebrity. You’ll have your pick.”

  He sighed. “I’m afraid people will be disappointed to learn I’m not what they think.”

  Ivy brightened. “I know! You can start a church. Lots of bucks in that, look at Thornton.”

  They all laughed, and Scott said, “That may be our only hope to cover your college.”

  Mrs. Steiner saw her opening. She turned to Ivy. “So, you’ve decided to finish high school?”

  “That’s the plan. I’m still on track to graduate, I haven’t missed that much.”

  “Wonderful. Do you intend to stay here with Scott till then?”

  The girl looked to her brother, and he offered, “For as long as you want.”

  She gave him a hug. “I’ve been burden enough. Pop can afford me, you can’t.” She told Mrs. Steiner. “It’s time I go home.”

  The pressure in Mrs. Steiner’s chest eased. She’d call Joe tomorrow with the good news.

  Grinning, she asked, “Who’s up for some cherry pie à la mode?”

  Kassandra sat in her living room surfing news channels, basking in the hot story of the day: the Prophet’s surprise liaison with Ellen Shackleton. In the fiercely competitive environment of 24/7 news, networks grubbed for viewers by turning stories into entertainment, hashing, rehashing, dissecting and bloviating. Kassandra’s coup was the rage de jour, and she was thoroughly savoring her triumph, when suddenly distracted by voices in the hall outside.

  It didn’t sound like Butterfield, but she was taking no chances. Switching off the TV, she grabbed her laptop and a glass of wine, and tiptoed to the bedroom.

  Butterfield had called and stopped by today, and Kassandra had ducked him each time. He’d left a message on her phone thanking her for last night. To her surprise, no mention of the Shackleton subterfuge. He’d also slipped a note under her door inviting her to dine with him and his sister tonight at that nosey old lady’s downstairs. Kassandra couldn’t imagine anything duller.

  She felt a twinge of guilt. Butterfield wasn’t the complete dork she’d pegged him to be. True, he hadn’t even made a pass at her last night, but he’d proven wittier and more amusing than expected. All the same, she couldn’t face him now, and thankfully she wouldn’t have to risk it much longer. With Shackleton’s polls soaring, Kassandra was still collecting accolades from colleagues, including Frank Percy, himself. Very soon, she’d leave this dump for an apartment in Manhattan, her position at EP&M now a lock.

  Tonight, however, after the most memorable day of her life, all she wanted was to hole up and enjoy the debate.

  She went to her nightstand to switch on the lamp, only to see it flicker and die. Damned thing had been giving her trouble. Another annoyance she’d soon dispense with. She gave it a whack, it blinked into service, and she opened her laptop on her bed, livestreaming.

  The debate was already in progress. A townhall format before a live audience in-the-round. Shackleton and Filby were perched on stools, separated by a moderator fielding questions.

  The styles of the two candidates couldn’t have been more distinct. Shackleton was a beautiful woman in her early fifties. Smart blue dress, vibrant red hair, green eyes and warm smile. A polished pro, rising from her seat to engage questioners, looking them in the eye, comfortable, confident. Honest Ellen, champion of fairness and women’s rights.

  Filby was Mr. Folksy. In his fifties also, laid-back and slack in an open-collar shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Defender of American values. All artifice, down to his staged mannerisms.

  A woman in the audience took a microphone to address Shackleton.

  “I’m a single mom,” she said. “I work full time as a cashier. But the high cost of childcare forced me onto welfare. What will you do to help people like me?”

  “You work for a large corporation?” Shackleton asked.

  “A merchandising chain.”

  Shackleton nodded. “We live in the wealthiest nation in the world, yet millions of full-time workers are on welfare to survive. But there’s a deeper irony. Did you know the corporation you work for is on welfare, too?”

  The woman puzzled, and Shackleton continued, “Your company won’t pay you a livable wage, so we taxpayers are left to cover the difference with public assistance. Our taxes subsidize your company’s low payroll so it can reap big profits. That’s corporate welfare.”

  To the cameras, Shackleton said, “The answer is to raise the minimum wage till employees and employers are both off the dole. That’s how it used to work in this country, and if you elect me president, I’ll make it work again.”

  There was rousing applause. Then Filby was allowed to rebut.

  He remained on his stool, legs crossed, face bunched. “Ya know,” he said, “we’re blessed ta live in a nation that values freedom. But these last years, government’s been pickin’ away at it. Got its hands in eve
rything, tellin’ us what to do, tellin’ employers how ta run their businesses.”

  He faced the questioner. “What ya really want is a job that pays more. An’ ya might have that job now, ‘cept ya know where it is? Overseas. People like my opponent here chased it away with rules an’ regs an’ taxes. You elect me, I’ll clear that brush and make the country open for business again, like it used ta be.”

  More rousing applause.

  It went on, back and forth…

  Kassandra awakened to the sound of raucous laughter. She’d dozed off, the clock on her laptop showing the debate almost over. She was confused to see Filby sitting scarlet-faced on his stool while the audience, Shackleton, even the commentator, were howling with laughter.

  Quickly Kassandra rewound to see what she’d missed.

  A man in the audience was asking Shackleton, “Where do you stand on teaching Intelligent Design in our public schools? Why Evolution only?”

  Shackleton replied, “I believe each of us has the Constitutional right to exercise our own spiritual beliefs. But I also believe our public schools are bound by the 1st Amendment to keep out of the religious arena. The courts have ruled that Intelligent Design—Creationism—isn’t based on fact, but entirely in spiritual belief. Religion is best taught at home and church.”

  There was isolated, but enthusiastic response.

  Filby’s turn. He inhaled and let his breath out slowly, shaking his head. “Look at this country, folks, whaddya see? Everywhere, violence, drugs, porn, disrespect for authority. We’ve lost our way ‘cause we lost the Christian principles we were founded on. Ya pull God, prayer an’ the bible outta our schools, our public squares, our government, where’s our moral compass?”

  Pockets of audience cheered, shouting, “Amen,” and “Alleluia.”

  Kassandra watched Filby gather-in the enthusiasm. He rose from his stool, standing tall, voice elevated like a preacher in a pulpit.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, friends, if we don’t change, an’ fast, we’re gonna lose what religious rights we got left. A government without God is a soulless creature. An octopus reachin’ into our lives, wrappin’ its long, cold testicles ‘round our necks.”

  He paused, awaiting his propers, but they didn’t come. A split second of dead silence, then sputtering guffaws building into an eruption of laughter. Filby looked perplexed, gaping around for a clue. The moderator finally went to him and whispered in his ear, and Filby turned scarlet.

  Kassandra doubled over with laughter.

  Desperate to recover, Filby went into attack mode, pointing at Shackleton, crying shrilly, “Is this what America wants for its leader? A divorcée. A drunkard with an arrest record? A godless carouser and con artist? Is this the Role-Model-in-Chief for our kids?”

  Shackleton’s face blanched like she’d been slapped. Eyes blazing, she snapped, “I never claimed to be perfect. I had a failed marriage, yes. I drove home from a party once not realizing I had too much to drink, and paid the price for it. That much is true, and public record. But I learned from those mistakes, I never repeated them.”

  Leveling a fiery glare at Filby, she said, “The rest of your accusations, sir, are garbage, and you know it. This entire campaign I’ve put up with attacks from your Super Pacs. Sexist slurs about affairs and disgusting acts of perversion. Cynicism about my Christian faith, my morals. Baseless character assassination—and now you yourself stoop to it!”

  The audience began to react, calling out support. “You go, girl. You tell him.”

  Shackleton singled out a TV camera and marched up to it, right in the lens.

  “For the last time,” she snapped. “For the record, my mouth to God’s Ear: There isn’t an ounce of substance to these charges. My whole life I’ve strived to conduct myself with dignity and honor.” She turned to Filby. “I’ll happily put my standards up against yours for the country to decide. The same high standards I intend to take with me into the White House next January.”

  The assembly roared, and Kassandra finished her wine glowing.

  Shackleton had rolled her opponent. And now, coupled with the Prophet’s boost and just two days to the election, the candidate appeared on a glide path to the presidency.

  Chapter 114

  November 2, 9:03 am, Talawanda

  “Look into the camera, please,” Stan said.

  Ariel sat at the table in the tent, squinting into the lens of her laptop as the klieg lights blazed brighter than ever. Stan and Max were testing iris exposures and light levels to strike a balance between obscuring Ariel’s identity and maintaining her angelic aura. Behind her, Tia worked her hair into platinum braids and ear ringlets.

  Max cued Stan from a laptop in a corner, “Okay, we’re good, lock it down.”

  Stan cut the lights and Tia mopped Ariel’s brow, the electric fans worthless.

  “You looked like the Resurrection,” Max assured Ariel. “Unrecognizable.”

  She took his word for it. Max was as determined as she that Thornton not recognize her during this next, crucial session. Their last hope to get the tape. While these charades always upset Ariel, this morning was especially tense as she prepared to face the towering spiritual figure of her youth. Like her friends, she saw no other choice. She was their only hope. Today at noon, four years ago and three hours from now, the Shackleton video had exploded onto the world. Everything the team had been working for, all they’d risked these many weeks, was coming to a head.

  And their hopes had grown dimmer with some troubling news this morning. According to the archives, Filby’s debacle in the debate last night, which came on the heels of Shackleton’s Prophet bump, had dropped his poll numbers even lower than they were in the un-adulterated past.

  More pressure on Thornton and his Council to air the tape.

  There was, however, some good news. Comparing this debate with the original, the team found the videos almost identical, down to Filby’s disastrous gaffe. It led Ariel to suggest, “The effects of our time-tampering seem negligible so far. Is it possible we’ll get lucky Tuesday, and squeak past the Big One?”

  Stan reminded her, “The changes are cumulative, drip, drip, dripping into the pool of Time, damming up. The quakes are getting stronger and more frequent. It can’t continue.”

  In other words, whoever won the election, the dam was going to burst. Damned either way.

  Tia mopped Ariel’s brow again.

  Chapter 115

  Sunday, November 2, 9:13 am, Queens

  Scotty paced the living room, Homer on his heels, Ivy in the bathroom preparing for the arrival of their guest. Thornton was sending Scotty progress reports on his flight from The City, and Scotty received each with anxious anticipation. He’d lain awake much of the night fearing something would go wrong, sword of Damnation dangling overhead.

  A new text on his phone brought him to a halt, and the cat plowed into him.

  Scotty called out to Ivy, “The reverend’s touched down, he’s on his way!”

  “Great. I’ll be right out.”

  Homer sat rubbing his nose, and Scotty noticed something in his mouth. A mousie.

  Kneeling, he scratched the cat’s ears. “Sorry, buddy,” he said, “I know I’ve neglected you. Be patient, it’s almost over.”

  Scotty had been slinging that same old hash for weeks, but this time he had real hope. If Thornton harbored doubts about Ariel, once the man stared into those mesmerizing eyes, he’d hand over that tape faster than he could rattle off a prayer.

  Scotty went to his computer to get ready, and Homer followed, jumping into his lap, pawing. Scotty brushed him away, but he kept it up, unusually needy today. Relenting, Scotty wiggled his fingers, and Homer spit out the toy. It felt odd, wetness aside. On closer inspection, not a mousie, a memory stick keychain in the form of a rabbit’s foot. It wasn’t Scotty’s, he’d never seen it before.

  Ivy came out to join him, and he dangled the foot at her. “Yours?”

  She puzzled. “Nope. What is it?”


  “Not sure, Homer found it.”

  He tossed it on his desk, but Homer failed to chase it.

  “Close as I can get you,” the cabbie said, halting a full block from the address Thornton held in his fingers. The crowd outside the car was thick and rowdy, having slowed their progress to a crawl.

  Thornton checked his watch. He’d fallen far behind schedule, and dare not be late for the most important meeting of his life. Closing his eyes, he said a prayer. Never had he felt such responsibility and stress. He’d undertaken this trip against the vote of his Council. The worst rift of his tenure, and it had cost him his chairmanship. So be it. He had to deliver the tape. And he had to speak to the angel.

  He had to know.

  Thrusting bills at the cabbie, he reached into his suit jacket once again to ensure the tape was still there, and stepped out into the turmoil. Instantly he was recognized.

  “Reverend Thornton,” a young black woman cried, holding up a baby with a heart-rending deformity. “I beg you, help my child.”

  Others pressed their own desperate pleas, overwhelming Thornton. Thankfully, the police were on the lookout for him and rushed to his aid, herding him through, mobbed and jostled. He was led to an old brownstone, up the front steps past a screeching door, into a dim foyer.

  Cracked plaster, worn linoleum. But clean. A familiar voice said, “Welcome, Reverend, sorry for the rough reception.”

  Thornton looked to see Scott in the hallway, and a neighbor peeking out her door.

  “Sorry I’m running so late,” Thornton panted in reply.

  They hugged, and Scott ushered him upstairs into a small, threadbare apartment where Ivy awaited. She greeted him with a hug, too.

  “Excuse the mess,” Scott said. “It’s been a tough few weeks.”

  “I’m honored to be here,” Thornton said, recalling Proverbs, 17:5: He who looks down upon another insults his Maker. Glancing around, he asked, “Where does the angel appear to you?”

  Scott pointed to a table/desk filled with organized clutter, and Ivy went to stand behind three chairs facing a computer monitor.