Yale got off the bus with him at 15th Street. They walked through to Collins Avenue. The blonde had gotten off, too.
"That's an itchy bitch," Pearlstein said. "Watch." He held Yale's arm. They stopped, waiting. Pearlstein relighted his cigar. The blonde sauntered by, staring at them coolly. "How much?" Pearlstein asked
The blonde turned. She shrugged. "What's money? You have it, you spend it!" Pearlstein laughed. "There you are, lieutenant. Come on. I'll treat you all to a drink."
They walked together in step, the blonde in the middle, Yale and Pearlstein on either side.
"My name's Kathie Winters," she said. "I'm not what you think."
Yale wondered how she had got her hair so yellow white. It looked like Santa Claus' whiskers.
"Mine's Jake Pearlstein," the fat man said.
"Mine's Marratt."
"You're in the Army, aren't you?" the blonde asked.
"Yup." It was useless being sarcastic. The blonde Kathie evidently had her troubles, too.
"Kathie Winters comes to Miami for the winter," Pearlstein said as they walked into the lobby of the hotel.
It was typical of the hotels along Collins Avenue. Faced with white coral and tinted pink, it rose about ten floors to a modernistic pinnacle capped with a blinking, blue neon sign that spelled out its name in slim, fashion-magazine lettering.
The lobby was filled with vacationers dressed in the latest cubist patterns and colorings directly from the better stores on Lincoln Road.
Jake directed them to an elevator. They got off on the third floor. "This room's nothing to brag about, but it's got a bed. It costs me twelve-fifty a day."
Pearlstein called for room service. The blonde sat on the bed. Yale looked idly around. The room was simply arranged with square cut functional furniture. A water color of a tortured swan was the only decoration.
Yale looked at Kathie. She wasn't bad looking in an artificial way. Her eyes were brown, but the discordance of the black eyebrows and the cornstalk hair bothered him. "How did you ever get your hair that color?" he asked. It wouldn't hurt to know, he thought. That interesting method could be added to a collection of useless information that was always wandering around in his subconscious mind.
"My hair is that color," Kathie said indignantly.
Yale laughed. "Okay, Kathie, I like it that color."
The set-ups were delivered by a tired looking bellhop.
"How'll you have it?" Pearlstein asked Kathie.
"Straight. I always drink it straight."
Pearlstein poured her half a tumbler. He looked at Yale.
"A little water," Yale said. "I'm a sissy."
Kathie gulped her drink in two swallows. She let out a contented "ah."
Pearlstein poured her another. "Christ, Marratt," he said, grinning and wiping his swarthy face, "we've picked up a tank."
They drank and talked. Kathie told them she had been married to a soldier who had been killed in Africa. She produced a telegram worn and creased. It was the usual thing, "The War Department regrets to inform you . . ." Yale handed it back to her. "Tough."
"Yeah. He was cute. He'd be awful mad if he could see me now."
"Maybe he can," Pearlstein said.
"Aw, don't be silly." She tumbled back on the bed. Her dress was high above her knees. Yale's suspicions on the bus were confirmed. She wore no panties. She giggled foolishly, feeling her drinks.
"Don't you ever wear panties?" Yale asked.
"No," Kathie said, wrinkling her nose. "They make me itchy. You don't know what it was to have been married and then not to be married. It gets you." She began to cry.
"Don't cry," Pearlstein said uncomfortably. "Come on, let's find a joint where there's some music. Better still, I've got an idea. Let's take in that 'Temple of Love' show over in Miami. Then we can head back here when things get humming and finish the evening in one of the clubs along the beach."
"What's this 'Temple of Love' stuff?" Kathie asked, suspiciously.
Pearlstein grinned. "Stop worrying, kid. You think we're trying to set you up?" Kathie tried to look offended but didn't succeed.
"It's not 'Temple of Love,' Yale said. "It's 'Seek the True Love.' At least that's what it says on the outside."
Coming back on the bus from Miami, he had seen the place Pearlstein referred to in an empty lot a few blocks from the railroad station. Over the tent spelled out in curved light bulbs that burned green at night were the words "Seek the True Love." He had asked the woman sitting beside him what it meant. The man sitting on the other side of him answered first. "It's probably a Holy Roller show or another Aimee McPherson." The woman agreed that it had something to do with religion. A fat, sweating lady across the aisle joined in the conversation. She told them that she believed it was a Nazi racket.
"It's just like them Silver Shirts at home, where I come from," she said, mopping her red face, pleased at the sudden interest the other passengers displayed.
Yale asked her if she had ever been inside the tent.
"Hell, no, soldier. There's enough fakers in Miami ready to grab your money without you asking for it. Annie McFeeley went there last week and what happened to her . . . well . . ." The fat woman looked ominously at the other passengers. She waited to be prodded.
Yale rose to the bait. "What happened to Annie McFeeley?"
The woman looked at them with narrowed eyes. She now had an audience of six. She gauged their interest and appeared satisfied. "Well, Annie came to Miami looking for something. Not what you might think, mister." She spoke to Yale who grinned back. "Everyone in Miami is looking for something. Anyway, Annie didn't find it. So she climbed on the usual merry-go-round. It was all right for awhile. Soldiers pay for the first few meals. There were a few laughs, but I guess Annie figured she was living in sin." The fat lady paused, extracted a sweaty handkerchief from the slot between her breasts. She mopped her face. "Hell," she said, "that's a laugh. Living in sin. Miami is the original city of sin. Anyway, Annie went over to that 'Tent of Love' the other night. I don't know what happened. All she kept saying was . . . 'It's so beautiful. It's so beautiful.' And 'He's so right. He's so right!' Annie cried for a couple of days, and then she packed her bags and went home. . . ." The fat lady ignored the is-that-all expression in the eyes of her audience. She got up for her stop. "Guess that won't happen to you, eh, soldier?" she remarked as she got off the bus.
"Do you really want to go there?" Yale asked. He thought for a moment that he would ditch these two and spend the evening alone. It was obvious that "Seek the True Love" was something sponsored by some religious cranks. Tonight, he was in no mood to listen to a crack-pot leading a bunch of stupid people down the sawdust trail.
"Oh, come on," Pearlstein said, nudging them toward the door. "What have you got better to do, Marratt? Drag the chippie around awhile. Get her in the mood. You can have her, then. I'm too old."
"I don't want her," Yale laughed. "You're not that old. She can probably show you a few tricks. She looks as if she knew how to start the kettle boiling."
Pearlstein flagged a taxi. They all sat in the back.
"This is kind of nutty, I think," Kathie said. "What kind of a place is it?"
Yale told her about Annie McFeeley. Kathie listened with her mouth half-opened.
"I hear that it ends in a strip act," Pearlstein said. Yale looked at him sourly.
"No kidding! You wait and see."
The taxi driver stopped across the street from the tent. A large crowd of well-dressed people were milling around trying to reach a booth where tickets were sold. The green light bulbs blinked out the message, "Seek the True Love." Glowing garishly over the crowd, they colored everyone's face with an unearthly hue.
"What's it all about?" Yale asked an elderly lady who stood just in front of him in the ticket line.
"You haven't heard him?" the woman asked.
Yale shook his head. "What's he selling?" That was a good question, he thought. Everyone in Miami was selling so
mething. As far as he had been able to determine, if you had the money, there was nothing in Miami that wasn't for sale including the trim blonde women driving Cadillacs around the islands in Miami Bay.
The woman smiled. "This is one place you don't buy anything. What's more you get a lot more than the price of your ticket. You'll see," she promised.
They moved closer to the ticket booth. Jake Pearlstein got in front of Yale. "Tickets are on me," he said. The woman turned and smiled at Jake. "A very good investment," she said.
"Ha! Ha! A shill." Pearlstein grinned. He was about to ask how much she got paid for promoting the joint when the woman introduced the man in front of her as her husband. He was wearing powder blue slacks with a rainbow colored shirt. A typical Miami vacationer. When he returned to his home town he probably discreetly put his Miami clothes in the closet until next year.
Pearlstein introduced Yale, Kathie and himself.
"Glad to know you all," the man said. "My wife and I are from Little Rock. Down here for the winter. It's not the same this year, somehow. The Army or Navy's got everything. Of course," he added, no doubt with a feeling of guilt at seeing Yale's uniform, "it's the only right thing to do. Miami is ideal for the boys. They deserve it."
Yale asked him what the show in the tent was about.
He looked apologetic. "My wife goes for this stuff. Me . . . I'd rather be over at the dog track. But you know how it is. You've got to please the women. On the other hand this guy isn't bad. He's sort of a John Anthony -- you know that guy on the radio that answers all the questions. Except this guy doesn't interview anyone. He's wasting his time really. If I could speak like this guy, I'd run for something. . . ."
At the entrance to the tent a thin girl of about eighteen, her hair waved peasant style around her head, was selling tickets. Pearlstein paid for three. Yale didn't protest. At least he wasn't going to be bored on his own dough.
The inside of the tent was lighted with the same pale green bulbs. Pine bleachers arranged in circular tiers filled the entire tent except for the center where a circular stage had been built up so high that those in the front rows would have to look up to see the speaker. Whoever stood in the center of the stage could dominate the entire audience. It was an extremely clever arrangement. A speaker on this stage would have most of his audience below him putting them at a psychological disadvantage.
The five of them worked their way into one of the back rows. Kathie sat between Yale and lake Pearlstein. Yale was aware of music softly flooding the tent. He recognized César Franck's "Symphony in D Minor." The yearning notes of an oboe grew louder. The volume of sound swelled until it encompassed the audience chatter. Yale looked around. The tent was filled to capacity. He tried to examine the faces of the audience. They were blended together in the soft green light; no one characteristic stood out. There were young faces and old faces. But not the faces you would expect to find in a group of fanatics. These were people who seemed intensely interested in what was to happen. Yale leaned forward on his knees. He waited.
Suddenly the pale lights along the walls of the tent were turned off entirely. A moment of utter darkness and then a large green spotlight flooded the circular stage.
The silence in the tent was intense. Then a voice was heard speaking over the microphones. The stage was still empty. The voice sounded all persuasive. It was a deep, resonant voice with hollow overtones that seemed to vibrate inside each listener. The man is a genius, Yale thought.
It was like listening to your own voice, your inner thoughts, bouncing off some distant mountain cliff. Yale felt shivers run completely through his body. He had heard that voice before! Where? Where? He wondered . . . feeling a moment of panic at not being able to place it. The crowd was on edge as the voice continued. Then Yale remembered! He must have sworn out loud because Kathie nudged him. He couldn't help it! He had heard that voice before. Mat Chilling! Like a violent slash of wind-driven rain, the voice tore across his memory. For a second the image of Cynthia flashed so strongly on his mind that Yale wanted to scream his hatred at the voice.
For a moment, he was once again a kid walking across the Midhaven campus on his way to a date with Cynthia Carnell. In love . . . happy . . . listening to the warmth of the spring night. Sounds of voices coming from open dormitory windows . . . scratches of a match as some student lighted a cigarette on the veranda. The warm, human sound of female laughter blending into the spring evening like a polyphony to the dominant theme of his love. And now it was gone . . . lost! Like Thomas Wolfe's "wind-grieved ghost" . . . hauntingly, the past had reached out. It was as if a window shade had unexpectedly snapped up on its roller . . . dizzily vibrating; revealing things on the other side of the window best left forgotten.
Yale wanted to pull the shade back down again but Mat's voice penetrated his reverie. Almost eerily, Mat, himself, appeared on the stage. He had evidently come up through a trap door. The audience clapped wildly. The voice on the microphone stopped. Yale realized that it had been recorded. Despite himself Yale marvelled at Mat's showmanship. Mat welcomed the audience. He waved for silence.
"Other than at the end of this program," he said, "I endeavor each evening to bring some new aspect of this religion of fulfillment to my audience. I realize that many of you have come here night after night. Some of you have found in these simple messages a new meaning to life. If somehow I have this season brought to you an understanding of the vital brotherhood of man, I am happy. I hope someday to formalize the work I have done here in a creed for man. Not a creed to substantiate the teachings of any prophet . . . be he Jesus, or be he Buddha . . . but a creed for the God that lives in each of you eternally.
"This week is my final appearance as a civilian. Tomorrow, I enter the Army, to serve and -- in the capacity of a Chaplain -- to help, as I can, the men who, whether they realize it or not, whether their particular religion or theology has been able to evoke it for them, are fighting for this creed of love for man, I hope one day to see you again in the capacity of a humble servant of God. I thank you for your encouragement. I hope someday to establish a foundation to be simply called 'Seek the True Love.' The money I have earned by these appearances other than what has been required to provide food and shelter for my wife and myself, has already been earmarked for this purpose. Someday I pray, with your help and millions like you, my message will be spread through the entire world."
As Mat spoke, his voice ran up and down the dramatic scale. He thundered and then he spoke in hushed whispers. In words that sometimes approached the vernacular of the street, he explained that man in organized religion, both in the Christian and Judaistic life, had forsworn his birthright. He vividly described primitive fertility rites. The worship of the priapus and female sex organ as he evoked it brought a subdued gasp from the audience. Gently he tried to give them an understanding of these original gropings of primitive man in search of God. To understand the universe and its mysteries, he told them, through the fundamental sexuality of all living things contained the seeds of true comprehension.
"I tell you," he said, and his impressive height and gaunt figure attenuated by the green spotlight accentuated the fervor of his voice, "I tell you, that while this original sex worship went to extremes and resulted in depraved orgies, nevertheless these people had the grand conception that can keep man going forward for all eternity.
"What happened to this clear-sighted intuition of our ancestors? This intuition that brought them to worship the never-ending mystery of life and death? I'll tell you what happened! A little group of men arose who sought to channel this power to their own use. They were the first priests. They knew that if they were to control men, they would have to make the simple act of creation devious. They would have to add the element of FEAR." Mat screamed the words. "And I tell you they did just that ! First, there was a group who aided and abetted this primitive sex worship. Instead of leaving it alone for what it was . . . a simple wonder at the beauty of death and regeneration . . . a wonder that
took form in priapic creations, not harmful in themselves . . . ah, but in this form not a source of power to anyone . . . instead of leaving the people alone, they contaminated them. How do you make power for control out of the organs of love? I'll tell you! You add the terrible word TABOO! Taboo."
Mat trailed the word into a terrifying whisper, and then he smiled. His voice returned to normal. "It scares you, doesn't it? By dint of repeating and repeating their sorry story these primitive priests indoctrinated their followers. They used the same basic method that Hitler has used in Europe. To help their cause they usurped the ultimate sex rites to themselves in ceremonies that if I told you about them would make you gag. A terrible defamation of the wonder of man. After many centuries they grew so powerful that everywhere they held primitive man in thralldom. But power begets power. Suddenly a new group of priests arose. This new group declaimed against these false prophets. I don't have to tell you about these new priests. Take your old Testament off the shelf. You can read the wrath they hurled at Sodom and Gomorrah. Unfortunately these old prophets were seeking power, too. Again, what better weapon to use than man's primitive wonder. Calumniate it . . . make it evil. How? An amazing idea taken over from a Greek fairy story and given a sexual twist by still a new group seeking power. The fall of man was conceived. They took the simple act of love of man for woman, a God-given desire , and introduced the serpent . And you, and you . . . and you," Mat pointed an accusing finger at the audience, "have inherited and sanctified that polluted idea . . . a worse pollution than Hitler's Mein kampf philosophy. If I had the time I could show you that Hitler and Mussolini are simply outgrowths of it. Someday the seeds of that pollution which has spawned war . . . and hate . . . and jealousy . . . will swallow us all up in its muck."
Yale could feel the audience in Mat's grip. Mat had them enthralled. He could hear the quick sighs of those Mat touched deeply. Yale listened to him in amazement as he attacked the early Hebrew prophets. Mat followed up with even worse denunciations of the early Christians. Yale wondered why Mat with these dangerous ideas hadn't created some kind of a religious riot. The audience was either basically Christian or Jewish. But in some way, Mat seemed to be able to say these things with such a warm sincerity, driving his message home, without benefit of religious or psychological jargon, that he reached back in time to some residue of the primitive wonder in every person who listened to him.
The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Page 23
