Spellbinder

by Harold Robbins

Her eyes still remained fixed on the table. “Sometimes is okay,” she said, “but I think them all the time. Pastor Willard is such a good man. I wasn’t exactly what you call a good girl when I married him. But I thought if I did, the sinful thoughts would leave. But they didn’t.”

  “Did you pray to Jesus for His help?”

  “I do. Every day.” She looked up at him. “But the devil is too strong in me. Even when you were standin’ there by the telephone, he made me keep lookin’ at the bulge in your pants. In my mind it seemed to be gettin’ bigger an’ bigger.”

  “It wasn’t only in your mind, Sister Willard,” he said, putting down his coffee cup. “The devil was in me too.”

  Her eyes were wide. “What can we do, Brother Washington?”

  “We both better get down on our knees and pray together for Jesus to help us.”

  He knelt on the floor as she came around the table and knelt beside him. He felt her gasp and suck in her breath as their shoulders touched. He clasped his hands in front. “Jesus, look down on us poor sinners and in Your name command this devil of lust to leave us.”

  She raised her head from her clasped hands and turned to him. “What if He does not hear us?” she asked.

  With one hand he turned her toward him while with the other hand, he opened his zipper. “There’s more than one way to bury the devil.”

  Chapter Six

  “Niggers!” Randle said contemptuously. “I thought your idea of franchising was great. But fourteen hundred nigger churches against five hundred and thirty regular Baptist churches is a little too much. Next thing I know you’ll have Churchland crawling with them. There won’t be any room for white people.”

  Preacher looked at him. “There’s plenty of room and you know it.”

  “Maybe there is,” the old man said. “But what self-respecting white man wants to sleep in the same hotel with a nigger in the room next to his? Or in the same bed that maybe a nigger slept in the night before?”

  “How about eating in the same restaurant?” Preacher asked dryly.

  Randle missed the sarcasm. “They won’t like that either.”

  Preacher looked at him across the desk. “Maybe they won’t like it but they’ll have to accept it. Besides the fact that their attitude is un-Christian, it also happens to be against the equal rights laws.”

  “That’s just the laws we’re workin’ to get rid of,” Randle said. “That’s just as crazy as the E.R.A., which we ain’t going to let get through.”

  Preacher was silent.

  “Don’t you see, son,” the old man said in a calmer tone, “if you keep on this way, you’ll be the ruination of the Baptist church.”

  “I don’t think so,” Preacher said easily. “Do you know that of the approximately eighty-odd thousands Baptist churches in the country today, almost half of them are black? Or that more than forty percent of the thirty-odd million Baptists in the country today are black people? As a matter of fact, we ran a few of the latest census figures through our computer recently and came up with a very interesting figure. According to present indications of population growth, in another ten years five hundred and twenty-five out of every thousand Baptists in this country will be black.”

  Randle stared at him. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I can get the printout for you,” Preacher said. “Jane ran this one herself.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” Randle said. “I don’t want no niggers runnin’ around my property.”

  “You mean Churchland?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Randle said. “I still own the land and everything on it.”

  Preacher stared at him for a moment. “Would you like us to move?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Randle said quickly. “I just want you to get rid of the black churches.”

  “Too bad you’re feeling like that,” Preacher said. “We’re already collecting over a million and a half dollars a year from them, and now that we opened up the audience some of the other TV ministries suddenly got interested. Pat Robertson is already planning a show for his sidekick, Ben Kinchlow, aimed at the black audience, and Oral Roberts is helping Fred Price of Los Angeles to raise the number of stations he’s already on from thirty-five to a hundred by the end of next year.”

  “You don’t see Jerry Falwell sucking up to them,” Randle said.

  “That’s true,” Preacher agreed. “But I’ve been getting reports from the field that Liberty Baptist College graduates and teachers have been showing up more and more at the black churches offering program help and literature. They’re even holding out the promise of some scholarships.”

  “How’d you hear about that?” Randle asked.

  “I didn’t until I started getting some complaints from some of the churches about the Moral Majority Report they were handing out to their congregations. We checked it out and found that many of the blacks were burned up because they feel that the political aims of the paper are directed against them.”

  “That’s because they’re all on welfare,” Randle said. “They don’t want to work for their money.”

  “That’s not true,” Preacher said. “But I won’t argue with you. A number of the black churches got together and want to start up their own paper and came to us to ask our help.”

  “That’s too much,” Randle said. “I told you they would start takin’ over. Of course, you turned them down.”

  Preacher shook his head. “I couldn’t. It’s the duty of the ministry to respond to the needs of its congregation. That’s a basic creed of the Baptist denomination. Each church has the right to determine its own policies regarding interpretation of the Scriptures and involvement in social affairs. It’s for that reason alone there are more than twenty different Baptist bodies in the country.”

  “That’s not answering my question,” Randle said pointedly. “Exactly what are we going to do for them?”

  “We’ve already done it,” Preacher said, taking an eight-page offset newspaper from his desk and placing it in front of the old man.

  Randle stared down at the paper. At first glance it looked pretty much like the Moral Majority Report, even to the type used. But the name in heavy black lettering was different: THE MAJOR MINORITY REPORT. Beneath that in smaller type, the other side of the coin. In the upper left-hand corner of the first page under the large caption, Credo, was a photograph of Joe and his name beneath the photo, The Rev. Josephus Washington.

  The text was in bold lettering:

  Believing there is more than one viewpoint held by good Christians and believing in the equal rights of all Christians to express those viewpoints and opinions, this paper is founded. We will endeavor to give expression to all Christian viewpoints, regardless of whether they reflect our own personal views or not, as a means of demonstrating the true independence of the Baptist denomination inherent in all its churches and congregations.

  “Holy shit!” Randle said. He picked up the paper and stared at Preacher. “This means revolution. You even put that nigger’s picture on the front page as editor and publisher. Why don’t you just turn over the whole thing to him, kit and caboodle?”

  “I already have,” Preacher said. “I didn’t think that you wanted blacks here in Churchland—besides, we don’t have the physical capacity to handle all the work of the franchise operation—so we’re in the process of moving the Community of God franchise headquarters to Los Altos.”

  Randle stared at him in silence.

  “That takes care of your worrying about blacks overrunning Churchland,” Preacher said.

  “What’s going to happen here?” Randle asked.

  “We’ll be doing business as usual.”

  “And the money?”

  “We’ll control that through our computers.”

  Randle was silent for a moment. “Those niggers have a lot of votes. How do we keep them in line?”

  Preacher smiled. “By giving them their own voice and telling them the truth. After that, it’s up
to them to decide how they go. Don’t forget the most important thing.”

  Randle stared at him. “What’s that?”

  “Our purpose is to spread the word of God, not to use our pulpit for political doctrine.”

  “What do you think this damn paper will be doing?” Randle snapped.

  “Nothing more than what the Moral Majority Report is doing. It is a completely separate and independent corporation with no more official connection with the Community of God than the other has with the Liberty Baptist Church. Our editor-in-chief happens to be Joe Washington and the head of the Moral Majority Report happens to be Jerry Falwell.”

  “You’re looking for real trouble,” Randle said. “You’re going to alienate a lot of our white contributors.”

  “I doubt it,” Preacher said easily. “Our computer studies also show us that there are just as many whites as blacks who feel alienated from our society.”

  “It seems to me that you trust that computer too much,” Randle said.

  “Maybe,” Preacher answered. “But I remember that you told me once there was no way you could run your business today if it weren’t for the computer. And it’s worked pretty good for us so far.”

  The old man rose heavily to his feet. “Our important friends are not going to like it.”

  Preacher got out of his chair. “Any time they’re unhappy they can ask me to leave and I’ll go. I have no contract with them. Only with God.”

  ***

  His mother’s voice came through the telephone. “You sound tired, Constantine.”

  “I’m all right, Mother,” he said.

  “It’s not just in your voice,” she said. “I saw you on last Sunday’s show. Something’s gone. You just seem to be going through the motions.”

  “Maybe I need a vacation,” he said.

  “I just spoke with Jane,” she said. “It’s after nine o’clock and you’re still at the office. She says the children never see you except on TV. That’s not right, Constantine. Children need their fathers too.”

  “I have so much to do, Mother,” he said. “It’s not only the show that you see on the air. It’s a business that you have to keep after every minute and it never seems to let up. If you do, you find that you lose your audience to any one of a dozen TV ministries.”

  “How do you keep score, Constantine?” his mother asked. “By how many souls you bring to God? Or how much money you collect from the TV programs?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “How long has it been since you preached to a congregation without having a TV camera pointing at you? How long has it been since you stood in the doorway of a church and spoke to people after your sermon was finished?”

  “I don’t have time for that anymore, Mother.”

  “Maybe that’s one of your problems. There’s a word I hear on panel discussions all the time. Feedback. You get something back from the people you really talk to after a sermon. What kind of feedback do you get from television?”

  “We get thousands of letters each week, Mother.”

  “You don’t even read them, Constantine,” she said. “They’re all answered by computer. Jane once explained to me how that worked. Everything about the letter-writer is programmed into the computer so that when the reply is written all personal references are inserted in their proper places.”

  “There’s no other way to do it, Mother. It’s an electronic age and the church has to keep up with it.”

  “God doesn’t need a computer to keep track of all the souls in the world. You answered His call, not a computer. He didn’t invent the electronic church, man did.”

  He was silent.

  “Maybe that’s why you feel tired and empty, Constantine. Maybe you’re beginning to feel like you’re just a part of that computer and that you don’t really know whether you’re bringing souls to God or checks to the bank.”

  He was still silent.

  “I know you, Constantine,” she said. “I could always tell when you were happy and when you were troubled. And I know you’re not happy now.”

  “I’ll be okay, Mother,” he said.

  “What you need is to get away from it for a while and have a good rest. Then maybe you can sort things out and discover what you really want to do.”

  “Nothing’s changed, Mother,” he said. “I still want to preach the word of God to as many people as I can.”

  “Maybe that’s what’s basically wrong,” she said. “You could be substituting quantity for quality. I think you were much happier when you could personally take one person by the hand and lead them to the Lord than when you’re speaking to thousands of faceless people you’ll never see or know.”

  “There could be another reason, Mother,” he said.

  “What’s that, son?” she asked.

  “I’m beginning to doubt my own faith, Mother,” he said. “What kind of a God am I serving who allows greedy men, lusting for power, to maneuver people in His name for their own selfish purposes?”

  “That’s a question only you can answer, Constantine,” she said quietly. “I’m your mother, not your conscience.”

  Chapter Seven

  “We’re beginning to lose our audience,” Marcus said. “According to Arbitron we’ve lost over a hundred thousand viewers in the month of December alone.”

  Preacher turned to Beverly. “What about collections?”

  “Down slightly,” she said. “But any real drop in viewers won’t turn up until the following month or two.”

  “What about the rest of the ministries?”

  “Not as much as us,” Marcus said.

  “It’s the recession,” Preacher said. “It’s hitting all of us.”

  “It’s not that,” Marcus said. “We had A.R.I. in Hollywood run a test on our last few programs. The audience was bored. We have to do something to jazz up our show.”

  Preacher was silent.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it,” Marcus said. “Did you see the Christmas specials last month? Oral Roberts had the Lennon Sisters, the Krofft puppets, and his son singing and dancing à la Fred Astaire with a chorus of beautiful girls in long flowing skirts on a stairway behind him showing decolletage down to here. Jim and Tammy Bakker at home Christmas Eve with a bunch of guest stars. Robert Shuller with a million-dollar production of the Nativity from the Crystal Cathedral, produced by the same man who did stage shows at the Radio City Music Hall in New York.”

  Preacher smiled. “I guess we’ve had it then. Too late for me to learn to sing and dance.”

  “I’m serious, Preacher,” Marcus said. “We’re going to have to do something.”

  “So am I, Marcus,” Preacher said. “But what? I’m not an entertainer, I haven’t the talent that Pat Robertson has for interviewing people and doing a talk show. I can’t heal people on camera like Ernest Angley. I can’t even sell square-foot plots on Liberty Mountain like Jerry Falwell does. All I can do when I get up there in front of the cameras is lay my own faith in God on the line for them to see.”

  “We can’t complain,” Marcus said seriously. “It worked up to now. But even the best show on television begins to fall off after five years. If you know television, that’s a pretty good run. But it’s time now to change our format or pretty soon we’ll have no audience at all.”

  “Do you have any ideas?” Preacher asked.

  “I’m working on a few but haven’t come up with anything to show you yet.”

  “I have an idea,” Preacher said. “Remember that old show, ‘Route 66,’ where those two guys rode around in a Corvette sports car and had an adventure in every town?” Marcus nodded. “We do the same type of show but updated. We have the same two guys, only their names are Jesus and Peter. Instead of a Corvette, they ride a pickup, and their mission is to find the worst sinner in each town and lead him to the Lord.”

  Marcus stared at him for a moment. “You’re not taking this seriously enough, Preacher. I admire and respect you for your sincerity. But, as a frie
nd, I think I ought to tell you that the righteous three on our board are waiting for the first sign of weakness to appear and when they find it, they’ll pounce on you like a pack of hungry wolves and tear you apart.”

  Preacher was silent for a moment. Suddenly, he understood why the man had come to him. “Thank you, Marcus, for alerting me. I’ll keep what you told me in mind. Meanwhile, you keep on working on your ideas. And I’ll see if I can come up with something that might be helpful.”

  Marcus got to his feet. “Meanwhile, the only suggestion I can offer is for you to try and get some more drama into your sermons. The devil and hellfire have always been the gospel preachers’ best stock in trade.”

  “I’ll try, Marcus,” Preacher said. “Thank you again.”

  He turned to Beverly after Lincoln had left the office. “What do you think?”

  “He makes certain valid points,” she said carefully. “But I keep remembering that he has always worked for Randle. Maybe this is like firing a warning shot across your bows to get you back in line.”

  Preacher nodded. “Maybe it is. But if they’re looking for a fight, I have no way to stop them. I’ll just have to deal with it when it comes.”

  She began to rise from her chair. He held up a hand. “Don’t go just yet, Beverly. I’d like to talk to you.”

  She settled back. “Yes, Preacher.”

  He looked at her for a long moment before he spoke. “Did any of this turn out the way you thought it would?”

  She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. “No.”

  “It didn’t for me either,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Preacher.”

  He smiled ruefully. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I chose to do it. Nobody made me.”

  She was silent.

  “Sometimes I wish that we’d stayed with the tent. Even with all the problems, without money, it was more fun.”

  “You couldn’t have done that,” she said. “It was time for you to move on.”

  “I guess so,” he said. He met her eyes. “What did you ever do with all that money in the suitcase?”

  “I invested it,” she said.