“It’s a tape of the television show this Reverend Newby does.”
The three of them trooped into the tiny living room. Cheryl popped the video into the player and they sat back to watch.
The broadcast opened with a huge American flag fluttering in the breeze in a bright blue sky. Then the camera moved back to reveal that the flag flew in front of a huge warehouse with a two-story cross affixed to the front. Organ music swelled, and the words “Blessing Time with the Reverend Jewell G. Newby of the Church of Cosmic Unity” appeared on the screen.
Now the camera was inside the church. A tall, distinguished-looking man stood in front of a flag-draped podium. He looked nothing like Truman’s idea of a television evangelist. For one thing, Jewell Newby was downright boring-looking. No greasy, pomaded patent-leather pompadour, no flashy suits or diamond-studded pinkie rings. With his graying blond hair, conservative white shirt, and blue blazer, the Reverend Newby looked like an IBM sales rep or maybe a CPA
His voice was pleasant and sincere. Newby read from the Bible, his selections heavy on New Testament readings that reflected his “gospel of prosperity.”
That’s what he called it too. “Jesus wants you to be happy. He wants us to be blessed,” Reverend Newby said. “Doesn’t the Lord tell us in the book of Leviticus that ‘you shall inherit the land of milk and honey’?”
After an uplifting hymn Truman didn’t recognize, Newby read aloud from letters written by faithful viewers, numbering and detailing the many blessings the Lord had showered upon them since their conversion to the Church of Cosmic Unity. The tape ended with a brief but fervent appeal for funds “to continue the Lord’s work.”
“He’s not so bad,” Cheryl mused. “I mean, at least he doesn’t pretend he can heal everything from cancer to postnasal drip by slapping somebody on the forehead. All in all, I thought he was pretty low-key. What about you, Dad?”
Truman shrugged. “There’s a woman with the Texas Department of Revenue sniffing around, looking into Newby. I want to talk to her. Find out if Reverend Newby has been playing games with church money. And frankly, I don’t give a good goddamn for somebody who’s selling a line to old folks living on a fixed income.”
He stood up and went into the kitchen, with Cheryl tagging along behind. Truman opened a drawer. “Where’s your screwdriver? I’ll fix the porch light before I leave. I’m meeting Jackleen at the dog track at two.”
Cheryl’s face colored slightly. “Oh, Dad, thanks. Don’t worry about it. Bobby fixed it yesterday. It works fine now.”
“Bobby says he’s gonna take me for a ride in his police car sometime,” Chip said. “And I can push the siren button and talk on his radio.”
“He said maybe,” Cheryl said gently. “Maybe.”
The phone rang.
She picked it up. “Dad? It’s for you. Ollie Zorn.”
Chapter TWENTY-NINE
“Did you see this?” Ollie asked, his voice rising in indignation. “See what they’ve done to Pearl? They’re trying to scare us into leaving. And that’s not all. Last night someone beat up Cookie Jeffcote. Damn near killed her. I’m the one found her. Thought I’d have a heart attack. Now they’re attacking us in our own rooms. I’m calling the cops and then I’m calling that TV station again. This church outfit wants to kill us.”
“Calm down,” Truman said, looking around the room, trying to make some sense of the confusion. “Tell me what happened.”
“She won’t go to the hospital,” Dottie Milas said, shaking her head in disapproval. “You talk to her, Truman.”
He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Pearl?”
Pearl Wisnewski’s face was shockingly battered, bruises around both eyes, her lip was cut and swollen, and her neck was ringed with more bruises.
“What in God’s name happened?” Truman asked.
Pearl managed to open one eye. “Someone knocked on the door. They … hurt me. Wanted something. A disk?”
The room had been ransacked. Dresser drawers lay on the floor, their contents strewn about; the closet door was ajar, with clothes tossed everywhere; pictures had been smashed on the floor.
“Who was it?” Truman asked, bending down close to Pearl. “Did you see who did this to you?”
“A man,” Pearl whispered. “Had a hat pulled down over his face. He kept shaking me, hitting me. I told him I didn’t have a disk.”
“We were supposed to go to church together,” Dottie volunteered. “She must have thought it was me knocking.”
“Did you see the guy?” Truman asked.
“No,” Dottie said, clearly disappointed. “Well, maybe just the back of him as he opened the door to the stairwell. He wore navy-blue pants and a shirt the same color. That’s really all I saw.”
Dottie brushed a lock of hair back from Pearl’s forehead. “She was on the bed here, trying to pick up the phone when I came in. Poor soul. Truman, tell her she needs to go to the hospital.”
Pearl shook her head slightly. “I’m all right,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Just need rest. Maybe some aspirin.”
Truman took her hand. It was cool to the touch, and the pulse in her thin wrist seemed weak.
He picked up the telephone and dialed 911. “No more arguing,” he said firmly. “You’re going to the hospital.”
Dottie Milas rode in the ambulance with Pearl. Ollie decided to ride in the car with Truman.
“Something’s going on here,” Ollie said. “You should have seen Cookie Jeffcote last night. I tell ya, I thought the girl was dead. Blood everywhere, broken glass. And now why would anybody want to beat up someone like Pearl? They didn’t even take anything.” He eyed Truman suspiciously. “What’s this about a disk?”
Truman bit his lip. If word got out about the computer disk, the cops would want to know why he hadn’t come to them with it.
“Some crazy rumor about a computer disk,” he said finally. “I don’t really understand it myself. Supposed to be hush-hush.”
“Come on,” Ollie said scornfully. “Waddya take me for? What’s going on, TK?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Truman said. “But I may know something by tonight or maybe tomorrow. It has to do with that girl that got killed. Rosie Figueroa. It’s just a theory. Nothing I can talk about yet.”
“You’ll tell me as soon as you know something? I’ll keep my mouth shut, TK.”
“Right,” Truman said.
Cookie Jeffcote gingerly touched the bandage that covered the back of her head. Even the lightest pressure from her fingertips sent waves of pain radiating through her head. Her face was swollen, her eyes caked with the remains of smeared mascara.
The Reverend Jewell Newby smiled tenderly down at her, took one of her hands, and squeezed ever so gently. “You gave us all quite a fright,” he said softly. “Feeling any better now?”
She touched her head again and hot tears began spilling from her eyes.
“They cut my hair. Those bitches cut my hair.”
Jewell Newby frowned. “You’re alive, Cookie. Surely that’s all that matters. The Lord delivered you from a certain death.”
She fixed him with a cold stare.
“You let them cut my hair, you bastard. Why’d you let them cut my hair?”
The events of the previous night were still hazy. She remembered Michael showing up unexpectedly, and then the next thing she knew, the masked men were forcing their way into the condo and beating her with that shotgun. Her head hurt like hell, still.
When she woke up the midget was standing over her, screaming and screaming and screaming, wild-eyed with terror. It was Ollie Zorn.
“Oh my God!” he kept screaming. “Oh my God!”
She remembered ambulance sirens. Someone was leaning into her face, talking about a concussion. And then this big, butch-looking nurse had taken a pair of shears and lopped off her hair.
They sedated Cookie after she swung and connected to the nurse’s chin, screaming she’d kill the bitch. And when she
woke up her glorious red hair was gone, her scalp shaved clean as a baby’s butt.
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she said, glaring at Newby.
“Me?” Newby looked befuddled. “I came as soon as the hospital called. Why, there’s a prayer chain working for you right now.”
“Fuck your prayer chain!” Cookie hissed.
“I’ll call the nurse. I think your pills must be wearing off.”
Cookie reached out and grabbed him by the cuff of his shirt. “Listen to me, you asshole. This is all your fault. You told me to shut Zorn up. I tried to shut him up. It was supposed to look like a robbery gone bad. Now we’ve got real trouble. And if you think I’m taking the fall for this thing, Rev, you better think twice.”
He froze. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
So she told him. She told him what she knew about his real estate schemes, and about Michael, and exactly what she wanted.
When he was gone, she got up and hobbled to the door to lock it. Her right hip was bruised and sore as hell. She picked up the phone and dialed. It rang six, seven, eight times.
“You moron,” she said. “You killed the wrong guy.”
Butch Goolsby did not wait to hear the rest of her invective. He knew most of it by heart anyway. He pushed the disconnect button. Then he yanked the cord out of the wall jack and crawled back into bed.
Chapter THIRTY
Truman pushed his AAA Auto Club senior citizen discount card through the slot in the cashier’s window.
The cashier was young and Oriental, with an easy smile. “Sir? We don’t take discount cards. Sorry.”
Truman feigned surprise. “Really? I used it just last Sunday; supposed to be a dollar off on Sundays, on account of no live races.”
The girl glanced around, looking for someone to consult. But hers was the only ticket window open.
“You’re sure?” she said in a voice that said she wasn’t.
“Positive,” Truman said, pushing six quarters through the slot.
The girl gave him his card and a token, and Truman went through the turnstile, feeling a bit better about the day.
The doctors at the hospital had said Pearl would be okay. The cops were interviewing her when Truman left.
“I’ll stay with her,” Dottie Milas insisted. “You go on.”
Someone had attacked Cookie Jeffcote in her home and Pearl in her room at the hotel. Maybe Ollie was right.
Maybe someone at the church was trying to force them all out.
He was leaning against a wall, considering the possibilities.
“Sir?” A female employee dressed in red blazer, black slacks, and a white shirt stood at his elbow, frowning. She had a track ID pinned to her left breast. “I’ll have to ask you to come with me.”
“I just—”
He did a double take. The “employee” was Jackleen Canaday.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, looking her up and down. “I could have sworn you were track security. Where did you steal that getup?”
“The word is borrowed. My cousin Twyla? She works at a dry cleaners. Seeing that woman yesterday gave me the idea. So you think it looks okay?”
“I was ready to surrender. How’d you get the track ID card?”
“Easy. There’s a check-cashing place, over near that liquor store down the street? They got a photo booth and a laminating machine in there. I just made a picture ID and typed the word security real big on it. Been faking IDs since I was in junior high.”
“You misspelled ‘security.’”
She put a hand over the badge. “I’m not planning on letting anybody else get close enough to my boobs to read it. Let’s get going.”
He told her the news about Pearl and Cookie Jeffcote as they went down the ramp toward the mainline and betting windows.
“That’s awful,” she gasped. “Somebody knows we’re getting close to that computer disk, Mr. K. We gotta find it before anybody else gets hurt.”
It wasn’t nearly as crowded today, a fact that made them both nervous. “You’re sure I look real?” Jackie repeated.
“Act real and you’ll be real,” Truman said. “Let’s see if Marian is here today. Maybe she could try the key for us.”
One of the cashiers told them Marian had Sundays off. “Okay,” Jackie said. “Where do you suppose the employee lockers are?”
“Turn around,” Truman said quietly. “Walk quickly, down toward the beer stand over there.”
“Why?” Jackie said, but she was moving as she talked.
“Because a real security guard was giving you the once-over,” Truman said. “And he was staring right at your chest.”
They stood in a cluster of thirsty customers for a tension-filled moment, saying nothing, willing the crowd to keep them camouflaged.
“Okay,” Truman said finally. “He’s gone. There’s a door, over by the instant teller machines, marked ‘Employees Only.’ Try that one.”
Jackleen took a deep breath. She squared her shoulders and walked briskly toward the door. And briskly back to Truman’s side.
“Chicken out?”
“Gimme the key,” she said. “You ever see some of the places I snuck into when I was a kid? Shoot. This is a piece of cake.”
This time she opened the door and went through it. Truman stood in front of one of the television sets and tried to act interested in what was being broadcast—harness racing from a track at Palm Beach. Every few seconds he glanced over at the door.
He’d been watching for five minutes when he saw one of the female tellers at one of the betting windows approach the door, open it, and go in. Truman felt his pulse quicken.
Two minutes passed. Finally Jackie emerged. Truman caught her eye. She shook her head, then motioned for him to follow her.
She was walking rapidly up the stairs toward the second level when Truman caught up with her. “No good,” she said. “The key fit in the lockers, but it wouldn’t turn.”
“So we’re on the right track,” he said. “But in the wrong place.”
“I had an awful thought,” Jackie told him. “What if she put it in one of the men’s lockers?”
“I guess if you can play dress-up, so can I. Where do you want to try next?”
“The Derby Club,” she said.
They caught the elevator up to the Derby Club. A hostess was stationed near the door. She asked if they wanted a table for lunch.
“Uh, no,” Truman said. “We’ll just sit at the bar, thanks.”
When they were out of earshot of the hostess, Jackie whispered, “I see an unmarked door over there, near the kitchen. I’ll check it out, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll go back in the kitchen.”
“Don’t take so long this time,” Truman said. “My nerves aren’t what they used to be.”
“Get a drink. Watch the races on TV. I’ll be right back.”
Truman sat down at the bar and ordered a beer. “You like horses?” The bartender was standing in front of him, polishing glasses.
“Nah. I just like to get out of the house. How about you?”
“They’re okay,” the bartender said. He was short, nearly bald, with four or five springy wisps of black hair protruding from his scalp. “What I really like is jai alai.”
“No kidding,” Truman said. “I never went to jai alai. Years ago, when I first moved down here, somebody told me it was rigged.”
“Used to be it was rigged. Now they got all kinds of state guys watchdoggin’ it. I tend bar over there at the Tampa fronton, during their season.”
“Good money?” Truman asked idly.
“Not bad,” the bartender was saying. “A different class of people over there, those Cubans, you know what I’m saying?”
Truman had no idea what he was saying, but he nodded gamely.
“And then there’s them damned Canadians. Come down here in October with a hundred-dollar bill and a clean shirt and never change neither one all winter long.”
“Hah, hah,�
� Truman laughed. The bartender rambled on, stopping every so often to fill a drink order for one of the waitresses, in between times regaling Truman with stories about ignorant jai alai fans who didn’t know jackshit and couldn’t talk English.
Truman had drained his glass and was considering fleeing to the men’s room to escape when he saw a familiar streak of red moving toward the elevator doors. Jackleen turned and flashed him a hundred-watt grin. He hurried over to her side.
“I got it,” she whispered. “I got the disk.”
Chapter THIRTY-ONE
Mel Wisnewski lay on his side in the bed, a thin blue cotton blanket pulled up to his chin. His eyes were tightly shut.
There was a nurse in the room. Bustling around, talking to him, calling him by his name, as though she knew him.
“We’ll get this straightened out and you’ll feel better,” the nurse was saying. She opened the cupboard and rifled through the clothes.
He tried to tell her “Go away.” But he knew he was mumbling.
The nurse was thin and blond, not one of the nice black nurses whose thighs made a rubbing noise when they walked and who sometimes came and sat by the bed and talked softly with him.
She was jerking clothes off the hangers, throwing them on the floor. Not straightening things at all. Then she moved to the dresser. The noise was so loud. He opened one eye and peeked. She took his clean socks and underpants and pajamas and dumped them out on the floor and pawed through them. Mel was embarrassed. He did not want this woman touching his things.
She did the same thing with all the other drawers in the dresser and then she attacked his nightstand, spilling a glass of water.
Mel moved his mouth to tell her to go away, to leave him alone.
She shook him by the shoulder. “Mel!” she said sharply. “Pay attention, Mel. Did you take something from Rosie? A disk?”
Mel squeezed his eyes shut tight.
“Look at me, Mel,” she said angrily. “I’m talking to you. Where did you put it? A disk? A little square of plastic. Did you hide it?”
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