Ticket to Ride

by Ed Gorman

  Cartwright was a tent-show preacher no matter how hard he tried to disguise it. He dressed like a banker, spoke perfect English, and never harped about money at Sunday services. The harping he left to a cadre of “Visitors,” as they were called, who worked the homes of the flock. They were holy variations on Mob muscle.

  Five or six times a year, he created a spectacle that got him on local and sometimes (much to the embarrassment of the Chamber of Commerce) national TV. He had burned sexy paperbacks (he never mentioned Kenny by name, but I was worried that one of his more zealous Visitors might try to burn Kenny out), chopped up Barbie dolls (scandalous attire), smashed in a brand-new 21” Admiral TV console to demonstrate how little he cared for sinful TV, sponsored a “Good Girl” modeling contest in which the winners looked as if they were in training to become Amish, and had one of his parishioners paint a fifteen-foot-tall portrait of Elvis as the anti-Christ. Elvis’s guitar was in flames, and a forked snake tongue sprang from his mouth.

  Burning the Beatles was a good idea by Cartwright’s standards. Some parents were leery of the group, just as many parents had been of Elvis. They’d heard the news about Carnaby Street with all its promiscuity—my God, fashion models with their breasts exposed—and suspected the end was near. These were the parents who helped get Cartwright on TV for all his stunts. Most parents rightly considered him a joke. Grandma had had Sinatra, the parents had had Bill Haley and then Elvis, and now their kids had the British Invasion. There were plenty of other things more deserving of parental attention.

  Thinking about Cartwright always made me smile. I got two or three minutes of amusement as a reward for passing by that giant steel cross.

  The main drag was just now lighting up for the night. Most people had some time off to be with their friends and families. The Dairy Queen’s chill white luminescence showed lines that stretched down the block. The same for the two downtown movie theaters where The Ipcress File with Michael Caine was up against Help with the Beatles, the latter probably sending the good Reverend Cartwright into suicidal depression. Little kids held strings to the red and blue and yellow and pink balloons their parents had bought them from the vendor in front of the A&P.

  Elderly couples sat on bus benches, the buses having stopped running at six o’clock. I wondered what they made of it all. Some of them had seen Saturday nights when horses and buggies had plied our Main Street. Now it was the predatory crawl of teenage boys in their cars searching for girls, me having been one of them for several years myself. I always watched for the black chopped and channeled ’49 Merc, the one even cooler than James Dean’s in Rebel Without a Cause. It was as brazen and sure of itself as only a classic car can be—it spoke of power and lust and longing; and now when I saw it pull into place with the parade of cars cruising the street, I felt better. Or maybe I just felt rational.

  A breeze cooled me as I walked the final steps to the police station. I was calm now, and I wouldn’t shout at Cliffie as I’d planned. I’d methodically point out to him that by not giving me adequate time with my client, he might well jeopardize the trial and give me grounds for appeal. This was unlikely as hell, but Cliffie knew even less about law than he did about police work.

  The lobby area was empty. The drunks and the fistfighters would fill up the eight cells starting in a few hours, and their loved ones would be out here in the lobby pleading for them to be released. Some would be embarrassed, some would be angry, a few—especially the women whose husbands pounded on them—would be secretly happy.

  Mary Fanelli was behind the desk. Since we’d gone to grade school together, she was another one who disregarded Cliffie’s Hate McCain policy.

  “How’s your dad, Sam?”

  “Not any better. Maybe a little worse.”

  “We did a novena for him at the early Mass yesterday.”

  “Thanks, Mary. Is the chief around?”

  “Softball game.” She brought forth a can of 7UP and sipped it. She was a slight woman with a sharp face redeemed by sweet brown eyes. “Bill Tomlin’s here. Want me to buzz him?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  She got on the intercom and told Tomlin I was here. She clicked off a second too late. I heard his “Shit” loud and clear. She smiled. “He knows you’re going to ask him to make a decision, and he hates making decisions. You know how the chief is. We all hate decisions because no matter what we do, it’s wrong according to him.”

  Tomlin walked toward me as if he was expecting to be executed. “Chief’s not here.”

  “That’s what Mary said. I’d like to see Harrison Doran.”

  “Aw, shit, McCain, c’mon. You really want to put my tit in a wringer like that? No offense, Mary.” Mary grinned.

  “I’m going to make it easy for you, Bill. I got permission from the DA to see Doran for half an hour. Your boss kicked me out after fifteen minutes. That means I’m owed another fifteen minutes.”

  “You mind if I call him?”

  “Who?”

  “The DA.”

  “You’re getting smart.”

  “I’ve been listening to your stories for four years now, McCain. The chief didn’t believe you, and neither do I.”

  “How about ten minutes?”

  He glanced at Mary as if for guidance. To me he said: “How about five?”

  “Five? What can I say in five minutes?”

  “A lot, if you get right to it.”

  “How about seven?”

  “How about six?”

  Mary had been swallowing 7UP and almost spit it out laughing. “You two sound like seven-year-olds arguing about marbles.”

  “I’ll take you back to his cell. And I’m starting the six-minute clock as soon as my key goes in the cell door.”

  He kept talking to me as we walked the corridors toward the back of the station where the cells were. I wasn’t paying much attention. I was thinking of seeing the smile on Doran’s face when I told him that I now had at least two more very possible suspects and would be telling the DA about one of them. Cliffie wouldn’t release Doran on his own, but his DA cousin could force him to. Doran needed some good news. It didn’t take long for most people to wither in a jail cell. Depression came fast; claustrophobia came even faster.

  Like the rest of the station, the cell block was clean, well-lighted, well-windowed, even if the bars on them did spoil any thoughts of escape.

  Doran was in a cell at the back. He sat bent over on his cot. I wondered if he was sick. If you haven’t had jail experience, your body can retaliate.

  He wasn’t sick, though. He was scribbling on a yellow pad and when he turned his face up to mine, he didn’t look wasted at all. He half shouted: “Hey, man! Great to see you!”

  What the hell was he so happy about?

  Tomlin’s key made a scraping noise. “Six minutes, McCain. Starting now.”

  He locked me in and left. I sat on the cot across from Doran.

  “You doing all right, Doran?”

  “This is so cool,” Doran said.

  “What?”

  “This—this is very, very cool, McCain.”

  “This is cool? Being in jail is cool? The last time I saw you, you were terrified.”

  “That’s before I had my idea.”

  He was doing theater again. He was up on his feet and walking around as much as the cell allowed. He could have snapped. It’s not unknown for people in jail to have breakdowns. Or even try suicide. “Listen, Doran, I think maybe I’ve got a shot at getting you out of here.”

  “Out of here! Are you crazy? You try and get me out of here, McCain, and I’ll get another lawyer.”

  “Sit down.”

  “What?”

  “I said sit down. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I think we better get the city psychologist to have a talk with you. Of course you want to get out of here. You’re innocent—or at least I’m pretty sure you are.”

  He sat down and leaned forward and snapped, “What the hell kind of bo
ok will that make?”

  “Book? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “My life story. All the people I’ve claimed to be. And how I wound up in jail falsely accused of a murder. And how a kind-ofdown-on-his-luck lawyer saved my bacon.”

  No, he wasn’t crazy; I was crazy. The words were supposed to be that he hated it in here and that he wanted to get out before he killed himself—but for some reason my brain wasn’t tuned to the right radio station. I was hearing some insane bullshit about him writing a book and wanting to stay in jail.

  “I’ve got to be in here for at least a week. So if you’ve figured out who killed the old man, you’ve got to keep it to yourself for at least five or six days. That’ll give me my ending—you know—how if I hadn’t been falsely accused, I wouldn’t ever have looked back on my life and realized that I should never have let all those women support me, even though—you know—I pretty much paid them back when bedtime rolled around. It’s the old Cecil B. DeMille stuff—fifty-five minutes of sin and five minutes of repenting at the end.”

  “I quit.”

  “What?”

  “Unless you tell me right now that all this bullshit is a joke, I’m quitting.”

  “This is my chance, man. I used to sleep with this older woman in New York. She’s a very important editor. I know she’ll go for this.”

  I could hear Tomlin unlocking the door that opened on the jail.

  “Look, you moron. They might convict you of this. They could get first degree. You could try diminished capacity because you were so drunk; but even if they knock it down to second, you’re in prison for a long time.”

  “But you know I’m innocent. And you’re a lawyer and a private detective and—”

  “It’s too much of a risk.”

  “But I’m innocent!”

  “That doesn’t mean I’ll be able to turn up the killer, dipshit. Innocent people get convicted all the time.”

  I enjoyed seeing shock register on his pretty-boy face.

  “Time’s up, McCain,” Tomlin said as he unlocked the cell.

  I shook my head and started to walk out, but Doran grabbed me by the shoulder. “I still think the book’s a great idea.”

  I was almost to the door when he shouted: “That editor’ll love this!”

  I wondered if I had enough in the bank to get him a year’s worth of electroshock treatments.

  13

  ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR—I COUNTED EIGHT REPORTERS including two with camera crews. The good Reverend Cartwright was getting the publicity he wanted. The crowd probably numbered seventy or eighty.

  Nearest the growing heap of Beatles records, books, and other merchandise were Cartwright’s people—stern mothers and fathers who pushed their small children forward to toss more sinful material on the pile. I noticed that there were few teenagers. They’d probably been harder to con into doing this, and the ones who did go along with it were the type who thought hall monitoring and snitching were more fun than abusing yourself.

  Flanked around them were the sneerers. These were teenage boys who formed a Greek chorus of snickers, laughs, jeers, and mockery. Eventually one of them would fart and then they would fall about like drunks.

  Then there were the rest of us, the curious. Cartwright was fun to watch and listen to. He was so full of shit, his blue eyes should have been brown. His problems with microphones alone were worth coming to see. For as long as he’d been at it—and for as many people as he had in his church, one or two of whom must have had some proficiency with the equipment—he was always at the mercy of every kind of mike on the market.

  All this was taking place right after the Labor Day parade. I’d stood next to Sue and Kenny. The marching bands and small floats excited him as usual. He swayed to the snappy band music. I was waiting for him to start saluting. Sue and Kenny were going to Sue’s folks’ for the rest of the day, so I was at Cartwright’s alone.

  The side of the church where the Babylonian tower was growing by the minute had big pictures of the Fab Four taped to it. The witch hunters had scribbled all over their faces. There was also a huge poster of Jesus that looked more like a Marine recruiting poster than a celebration of an iconic religious figure. Cartwright was one of those ministers who constantly retold the Bible story of Jesus kicking the money lenders out of the temple. This was the story always used to justify religious violence aimed at those who didn’t share your own beliefs. Jesus the gunfighter; Jesus the hit man. Having a great deal of respect for Jesus, man or son of God take your choice, I’ve always resented people who twist his life and words into a call for hatred and war.

  As soon as I heard the high-decibel ear-melting sound of feedback, I knew that Cartwright was ready to go.

  He’d fixed up a little dais for himself. He stood on it now, glaring at the stand-up microphone as if it might attack him. He flicked a finger at the head of the mike and then jerked back when it screeched at him. He wore his red robes today. They were vaguely papal. Before starting to speak, he raised a Bible-heavy right hand and showed it around to the crowd as if he was an auctioneer trying to get some bids on it.

  And then he started. It was the same old bullshit. He was a lazy orator. He basically gave the same speech for all these publicity events. He just substituted whatever atrocity was at hand.

  I formed the opening of his attack in my mind even before he spoke it: “Am I the only person in our community who is willing to fight the paganism that is perverting our children? No! Thank the good and magnificent Lord I am not! Look at these concerned parents whose children are wise enough to recognize paganistic evil when they see it.” He used the Bible to point at the mound of dirty low-down rock-and-roll stuff.

  That was when thunder started rumbling across the sky that had turned gray-black halfway through the parade.

  One of the sneerers shouted: “It’s gonna rain, Reverend!”

  “It will not start raining until God’s will has been satisfied.” And his flock started clapping so hard, you’d think he’d just given them a new Chevy.

  And then he set off. The basic message was that there were kids in this very town who had thoughts about sex. Yes, actual thoughts about actual sex, those filthy little bastards.

  These kids would have no interest in sex if they weren’t encouraged by the “paganistic” smut that they could not escape.

  Smut that was everywhere from magazines to movies to TV. The last one I didn’t understand. I only knew of one smutty newscast. That being “Walter Cronkite and the Fucking News.”

  Then there was the music. He went through the list, starting with Mick Jagger and finishing up with “Communistic” folk singers.

  But the Beatles were the worst of all because they made paganism seem “cute” and “friendly” even though this kind of charade was very typical of how the devil seduced otherwise innocent teenagers into breaking the laws of God.

  Now, none of this would be remarkable if the tall, gaunt man with the bullet-shaped head and the red robes didn’t break into holy song every few minutes—without warning and with no particular relevance to what he was shouting about. He went crazy. He raised his hands to the heavens and broke into a baffling bone-shattering dance, the Bible flying out of his hand, his mad eyes rolling back into his head and spittle like froth spewing from his lips. He’d obviously gone to the same divinity school as Little Richard, DDT.

  This is what the press had come for. This was a maniac that everybody could laugh at, even other religious people. I always wondered if he knew he was a joke, or if he simply put up with the derision to get his message out because getting his message out emboldened his Visitors on their collection rounds. Now they’d be more like SS troops than ever before.

  After about twenty minutes of this, he started to wear people out. It was hot, and ominous thunder rumbled constantly in the background. The youngest ones who’d been pushed forward had started to complain. They were bored and they wanted to go home.

  Even the sneerers we
re quiet now. He’d won by the sheer brute force of boring people. He was just hitting the twenty-five-minute mark when the rain started pattering down. This wasn’t to be a cleansing rain. This was a dusty summer rain with swollen drops that were hot on the skin.

  “Now we will please the Lord! Now we will do our duty!”

  For some reason these words seemed to rally the faithful out of their funk. They suddenly jerked their arms to the leaky heavens and shouted in unison, “Cleanse us, O Lord! Cleanse us!”

  Cartwright broke into another quick song. In this one he claimed he’d rather be deaf, dumb, and blind than to be saturated with smut. Hey, Reverend, speak for yourself, all right?

  And now came the ultimate moment.

  He turned away for a few seconds, then reappeared holding a small red can with the word GASOLINE printed in yellow on the side of it. He was going to torch Ringo.

  He raised the can above his head the way a priest raises the Eucharist right before Communion. “This is the Lord’s judgment. I am doing this in the name of the Lord!”

  Then he leaped from the dais. His landing worked against the drama. He nearly fell on his holy ass.

  The gasoline in the can sloshing, he advanced on the tumbledown mass of rock-and-roll trash he planned to burn. The sneerers awakened, laughing and hooting as the rain began to intensify. Some of the flock turned around and shouted at them, but that only made the teenagers torment them more loudly.

  Meanwhile, the good Reverend Cartwright was raising the gasoline can to the sky again. The eyes looked more crazed than ever.

  One more time he raised the gasoline can. He really needed to get some new material for this part of his act. The can thing was almost as boring as his songs.

  His benediction finished, he brought the can down and bent over to unscrew the cap.

  By now the sneerers and three burly members of the church were standing inches apart insulting each other. Two of the print reporters were hovering over their notebooks so the paper wouldn’t get drenched by the rain. One of them glanced up at me and grinned. This was good stuff for a story.