Diamonds and Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery

by Micheal Maxwell

  “Hallelujah!” a voice that shook the tin walls jolted Cole from his memories. There he was, older, a bit thinner and grayer, but still a giant of a man. Brother E.T. Bates was about to begin the service.

  For 60 minutes, Bates shouted, stomped, whispered, sang phrases from old hymns, joked, cried, and pled the blood of Jesus on the sinners in the pews. He was a wonder to watch. His delivery was honed to a razor’s edge from years of services just like this one. There was no emotion, no fear, no hope of glory left untouched. He knew all the buttons to push and in what order. When he pulled his huge white handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the sweat from his scarlet face, it punctuated the point he was making as no words could ever do.

  The closing story of the man who had sat in the third row from the back, left hardly a dry eye in the place. It told how many years ago, a man sat in the third row from the back and struggled with the decision to go forward and be saved. “He knew he needed the Lord! That small voice tugged at his heart. His hands sweated and his heart pounded! Just like many of you tonight. He knew, hallelujah, that God was calling him into the family. ‘Behold I stand at the door and knock,’ Jesus said, oh, hallelujah. This fellow heard the knock, but did he answer, my friends? Oh no, he stifled his feelings, he blocked the calling of the Holy Ghost. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘tomorrow I will be saved.’ But how many of us know if we will have a tomorrow? I remember the look of joy on his mother’s face as the young man stood to his feet. I remember how she looked, hallelujah, thinking her wayward boy had come home. I remember how she saw her family restored and her prodigal’s name written in the Lamb’s Book of Life, hallelujah! But oh, my dear ones, I, too, remember the sorrow and heartbreak as he turned and made his way out the back door. I remember that mother burying her face in her hand and sobbing, knowing her baby, her boy, had turned his back on the Savior’s gift of eternal life. I shed a tear as well at that scene, beloved, I had done everything this poor preacher could do to show him the way, but he turned his back on the Word. I wish I could tell you he turned and took the Savior’s hand, I wish I could tell you a story of a life redeemed, I wish I could tell you of a family raising a new generation walking in the path of righteousness. But I can’t.

  “You see, that young man left this place that night, he left having heard the small soft voice of the Holy Ghost, he left that night with the invitation song still ringing in his ears, but he didn’t go home, no sir, it breaks my heart to tell you, he sought out his old friends, he sought out those so practiced in sin, so controlled by worldly things, and Satan was right there to welcome him back! To drown that voice deep in his heart, he joined his friends in drink, he joined in their laughter, and to dull the aching need to the Savior, he got drunk!

  “When the bar closed that night, he staggered to his car. Barely able to stand, he climbed behind the wheel! Swerving back and forth across the lanes of the highway, he never saw the car stranded on the side of the road. He never saw the father trying to start the stalled engine, he never saw the mother gently rocking her precious baby in the front seat. He never saw the three little ones peacefully sleeping in the back. But, the saddest thing of all, my dear friends, he never saw how the life was crushed out of them when his speeding car hit them from behind, exploding in a ball of fire. That beautiful family snatched from this life and sent into eternity. Now, I don’t know their hearts, I don’t know if they were ready to meet the Savior on the streets of glory. I pray with all my heart they were, and that they are seated at the feet of Jesus tonight, hallelujah! But I do know one thing: I stood by the side of a casket, I stood by the still silent body of a young man who had sat on the third row from the back, and cried tears of sorrow. I cried for that mother. I cried for the choice that young man made, because they would never have a reunion in heaven. For he had made the choice to refuse the gift of eternal life.

  “Don’t you do what that young man did, my friend, don’t you refuse the Savior. As our dear sister Maria begins to play ‘Just As I Am,’ you, too, slip from your seat, I want you to answer God’s call and come down to this old-fashioned altar and meet the Savior. You know who you are, you know you need the Savior, come on, come pray with me tonight. And don’t be like that young man in the third row from the back.”

  As the organ began to play, Bates walked to the edge of the platform and stood, eyes closed, hands raised heavenward. People began to stream forward. Some to be saved, some for the third or fourth time, but they came forward. Cole sat and watched as old men and women made their way forward and put their hands on the shoulders of those kneeling at the front.

  Bates prayed, over and over, for those who had heeded the call. There was a rousing round of “hallelujah”s and “praise the Lord”s, and then the meeting was over. A loud joyous rendition of “In the Sweet Bye and Bye” boomed from the band. They had returned to the platform unnoticed as Bates slipped through the side door.

  Cole made his way down the aisle and shook hands with several people. “Lord Bless You this Week” was offered by at least six. He felt a bit apprehensive about using the platform door, but he didn’t want to run the risk not being able to find Bates. The door opened into a hallway lit only by a small fixture in the ceiling. It should’ve had two bulbs but one must’ve been burned out. Cole could hear the sound of coughing coming from an open door down the hall.

  “Good evening,” Cole said softly as he tapped on the doorframe.

  Inside, Edwin Bates stood, suit coat off, pouring hot water from a kettle heated on a hot plate into a mug. “Good evening. Cup of tea? The old throat isn’t what it used to be,” Bates said with a slightly questioning smile.

  “No thanks. My name is Sage, Cole Sage. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “That kind of comes with the territory. What is it, son?”

  “I understand you have been speaking out against the Malcor project,” Cole began.

  “Now, see here, I will not be threatened or intimidated by you or anyone else! I’m an old man and—”

  Cole cut him off. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m on your side! I’m just trying to get some information.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Bates said with embarrassment. “I’m getting a little edgy. Been getting threatening messages left on my answering machine. Some pretty nasty letters, too. I guess I look at everybody a little suspect lately. I’m sorry.” Bates set the mug of tea on the table. “Have a seat. Let’s start over.”

  “I work for The Sentinel in Chicago.”

  “My, my, I had no idea that our little problem drew national attention,” Bates puffed up a bit.

  “Well, not exactly. You see, I’m in town helping a friend with some legal troubles and—”

  “You’re a lawyer, too?”

  “Nope,” Cole smiled, “but she hasn’t got anybody else. I’m kind of pushy and not afraid to stick my nose in things. That’s why I’m here. Do you know a guy named Christopher, Allen Christopher?”

  “He’s a real estate agent. Represents Malcor. Been buying up every house he can get his hands on ‘round the airport. I hear he has one of the zoning guys in his pocket. That’s probably rumor.”

  “How did you get involved in all this, Reverend?”

  “Please, call me Ted. I’m just a country preacher. No college, no degree, just love the Lord.”

  “All right.” Cole felt very uncomfortable being on first name basis with E.T. Bates. It seemed to take away the aura, like being a kid again and seeing your favorite teacher in their bathing suit at the lake.

  “A lot of my flock comes from the airport district. I was born and partly raised right there on the corner of Hedges and Kent Streets. Our house was originally downtown. It was a little diner called the Three Little Pigs, and my dad bought the building for $100 and had it moved onto our lot. That was in 1934.” Bates realized he was drifting, “Sorry. I get off track sometimes. Anyway, lots of folks out there have been there since the Depression. They own their places, humble as they may be, free and clear. Pla
ce to live out their lives. If this zoning change happens, they will get pushed out. Not by choice but by their greedy kids, relatives, and bad counsel.”

  “They don’t have to sell, I mean these aren’t ‘forced’ sales are they?” Cole wasn’t getting where Bates was going.

  “Well, once one or two take the bait, the others will follow. Trouble is, a big block of houses have been bought up over the years by William Brecker.”

  “I know the name. Real estate agent? Got his own office? That guy?”

  “Yessir! Becker must own 50 or 60 houses in the district. If he sells, we got problems. If the zoning changes, we got problems. He’s got a lot of pull downtown and ‘for the good of the community’ the city might just force sales of the holdouts.”

  “How can they do that? Aren’t the deeds honored under the old zoning ordinances?”

  “Not if the properties around them are torn down to make way for future construction. Then we have part ghost town, part neighborhood. It will happen, but then what? These little houses aren’t worth much. Even if they are paid for, what will that dab of money get for them? This is the cheapest section of town. These folks won’t be able to pay the deposit to get into one of those retirement centers on the north side. The renters will be okay. They’ll just find another place. But it’s the older folks I worry about, and that’s who I’m fightin’ for.”

  “So, Christopher approaches the homeowners about selling?”

  “Yes, Lord forgive me, and there’s a crook if I ever saw one. ‘By your fruits ye shall be known’ and his are plenty rotten. He has told people every cock-and-bull story you can imagine. He even had one old fella who was nearly blind sign a sales agreement and told him it was a refusal letter! This man has no shame. These folks can’t afford a lawyer, so they turn to me and a few of the pastors in the district to see what we can do, and I can tell you, it’s not much. Malcor’s got big bucks and bigger plans, and God help anybody who gets in their way. Check the record for fires lately? Dramatic increase in electrical and attic fires. That’s no accident. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right, we can’t prove it, but doesn’t mean it isn’t so. As a newspaperman, you should know that.”

  “The thing I don’t get is the zoning people. They can’t just go from residential to commercial on a whim. There are laws governing things like this.”

  “There surely are. That’s our biggest problem. Back in the Depression when this area of town got started, it was a tent city of Dust Bowl refugees. Bottomland by the river that nobody much wanted. So, willing to make a cheap easy buck, a couple of the farmers who owned the land—Bronson and Kerr by name—rather than kick off the squatters, decided to sell. They broke the land into lots and sold it off. No zoning laws back then, and who cared about the Okies anyway? Everyone figured they would drift out just as they drifted in. Some of the folks were tradespeople back home, though, and decided to set up shop out here. My dad was a blacksmith, and his shop was next to our house until he died, and that was during the Korean War. There were mechanics shops, grocery stores, churches, and a veterinary hospital. Later on, there were welders, cabinet shops, all kinds of businesses. There’s still the big lumberyard on Park Street. No one ever bothered to zone the area. Then it was incorporated into the city back in the ‘50s. Nobody paid any attention. That’s why there’s no sidewalks or fire hydrants. Just poor folks with no say-so downtown. Malcor has petitioned to have the whole area east of the river zoned industrial commercial. Since it isn’t zoned at all, it doesn’t really have to be changed. Word is, Christopher has been spreading some money around downtown to get it done quicker.”

  “Doesn’t sound too hopeful for the homeowners. But bribery is still a crime, even if it is a done deal.” Cole realized there wasn’t much more Bates could offer.

  “We need some press on this thing. Can you help?” Bates knew the answer before he asked.

  “I’m not sure it would help, being written up in The Sentinel. Maybe the Ledger, huh?” Cole stood to go. “I appreciate your time, Brother Bates. I’ll let you know if I find anything out that will help.”

  The big man stood and extended his hand. “I’ll be praying for you.”

  “Thanks. Say one for my friend Ellie, too, would ya? She needs it a lot more than me.” Cole thought if there was anyone worthy of God’s ear, it was Bates, and welcomed the help.

  “We all need prayer, son. God bless you real good.”

  “I hope so.”

  EIGHT

  The Zoning Department was housed in a marble mausoleum referred to as the Court House. It actually served as the home to most city offices. The City Hall, built in the early ‘50s, was a shortsighted project built too small even before construction was finished. The functioning Court House had moved to a new building in the late ‘60s while the old building filled with the overflow from City Hall.

  Green marble went up the wall four feet high and seemed to make the long hall nearly come together at the far end. Cole loved old buildings and the coolness that the marble floor and walls seemed to give off. The double doors were frosted glass and said “Zoning Department, Myron G. Hearst, Commissioner” in gold leaf lettering. A small piece of paper was taped to the left door reading “Please Use Other Side” in block letters with a blue felt tip pen. The door whooshed as it opened into a large office filled with old-fashioned gray metal desks, all of which were piled high with stacks of papers. A young woman with a distinct lack of chin and large dangling earrings sat behind a sign on the counter that read “Judy Oscar, Receptionist.”

  “Hi Judy.” Cole smiled. “Cool earrings! Did you make them?” Cole could see upon a closer look that they had been somebody’s idea of a craft project. They looked like they were made out of Play-Doh and macaroni, then splashed with nail polish.

  “No, my niece did. Like ‘em?”

  “Love ’em!” Cole lied.

  “What can I do for you today?”

  Cole held up his press credentials. “I would like to speak with Mr. Hearst if I may.”

  “No can do. Mr. Hearst is out on medical leave.” Then in a whisper Judy said, “Brain tumor, probably won’t make it. It’s really sad. He was so nice.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Mr. Elias is the Acting Commissioner. He’s in.”

  “He’ll do.” Cole matched Judy’s whisper. “What’s he like?”

  Judy wrinkled her nose like something smelled bad. “Let’s just say I like Mr. Hearst a lot more.”

  “Got it. Young or old?”

  “‘Bout 35, I guess. Changing everything, nobody likes him. Likes to be the boss.” Judy sighed.

  “I’ll let him. Wanna tell him I’m here?” Cole smiled.

  Judy picked up the phone and punched in three numbers. The conversation was mostly one sided. Judy made faces and winked at Cole during the pauses. She hung up the phone and pointed at the far corner of the room.

  “Just follow your nose.” Judy smiled.

  “Why, does he stink?” Cole grinned and went through the swinging half door at the end of the counter. Judy was still laughing as Cole made his way to the back of the office.

  A tall man with thinning hair and the scars of adolescent acne stood in the door of the office. He wore a white shirt with a thin black tie, loose at the neck. He watched Cole as he made his way through the maze of desks.

  “Mr. Sage,” the thin man said, smiling. “Sven Elias. How can I help?”

  “Not sure you can, I’m just on a fact-finding mission. I sure appreciate your taking time to see me.”

  “My pleasure, please come in.” Elias gave a wide genuine smile showing the faint shadows of the new-style clear braces.

  “I was sorry to hear about Mr. Hearst. Big shoes to fill,” Cole bluffed. “But I hear you run a tight ship. Good for you. Can’t be easy.”

  Elias frowned and cleared his throat. “I’m doing my best. A lot of resistance to somebody new taking over, you know how it is. Myron Hearst was loved by everybody. Did you
know he had been Commissioner for 33 years? Lot of pain people don’t know how to deal with, so the new guy is the easiest target. I understand how it works, but that doesn’t make the transition any smoother. You know what they say, ‘It’s lonely at the top!’”

  “You look like you’re up to it.” Cole liked this man.

  “Thanks, so what brings you in?”

  “Well, it is this Malcor thing,” Cole began slowly. “What’s the straight dope on this zoning change? There are so many stories going around I thought I would come to the one who really knows what’s going on.” Cole waited; Elias showed signs of needing somebody to talk to.

  “Oh, boy.” Elias took a deep breath, stood up, and crossed the room to close the door.”You’re from Chicago, Mr. Sage?”

  “Please, call me Cole. Yes, and I’m a Cubbies fan, no jokes please.”

  “No jokes. Look, I’m a small town guy. Went to the community college and a small Methodist College in Indiana. Big cities are like foreign countries to me. Can I ask you something?”

  Cole nodded.

  “Are there still mobsters in the big eastern cities?” Elias was dead serious.

  “Well, yeah, I guess. Why do you ask?” Cole sensed real uneasiness and it wasn’t from Elias reading the papers.

  “I’ve heard that the Malcor people are connected with mob guys. Do you know anything about that?”

  “It was said that they fix union problems. Organized crime has a long history of union involvement. The mob was the money and muscle behind them. Why?” Cole wondered where this was going.

  “This is off the record. That’s what it’s called, right? When you can’t print what I say?” Elias said earnestly.

  “Yes, that’s what it’s called.” Cole smiled.