by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
“I’ll take a square of crumb cake.” Jack turned to Nina. “And you, sweetheart?”
Nina, unfazed, shook her head.
Jack grinned at Oscar. “The missus is a bit shy in this neighborhood.”
“I understand completely.” Oscar had a spray of freckles over the flattened bridge of his nose. He placed Jack’s crumb cake in a square of paper on the top of the glass case. Addressing Nina, he said, “How about a chocolate-chip cookie?” He picked one out of the pile, held it out. “No one can resist one of our chocolate-chip cookies.”
Jack remembered. Even stale it was good.
Nina gave a tight smile, took the cookie.
Jack took out his wallet.
“The cookie’s on the house,” Oscar said.
Jack thanked him as he paid. He bit into the crumb cake, said, “Delicious.” As he chewed, he said, “I wonder if Joachim is around.”
Oscar busied himself arranging a tray of linzer tortes. “Friend or business?”
“A little of both.”
Oscar seemed to take this nonanswer in stride. “The boss’ll be back tomorrow. He’s in Miami Beach, for his mother’s funeral.”
Jack looked around the room, munched on his crumb cake. “You know what time he’ll be in?”
“First thing in the morning,” Oscar said. “I just got off the phone with him.” He took a tray of butter cookies from a thin lad who’d appeared from the oven room. “Any message?”
“No.” Jack finished off the crumb cake, brushed his fingertips together. “We’ll be back.”
Oscar held aloft a couple of cookies. “Something for the road?”
Jack took them.
27
The Renaissance Mission Church is more than a place of worship for Jack; it’s his schoolhouse. It doesn’t take long for Reverend Taske to unearth the root of Jack’s reading difficulties. As it happens, he’s studied a bit about dyslexia, but now he studies more. Every evening when Jack arrives after work at the Hi-Line, Taske has another idea he’s found in some book or other pulled from libraries all over the District.
One evening Jack is particularly frustrated by trying to read a book—this one is of poems by Emily Dickinson. He lashes out, breaks a glass on Reverend Taske’s desk. Immediately ashamed, he too-quickly picks up the shards, cuts the edge of his hand. After throwing the glass into the wastepaper basket, he goes over to the armoire, takes out the first aid kit. As he does so, his eye is caught by something on the floor of the armoire. Pushing aside some boxes, he sees what looks like a door.
Just as he’s pushing the boxes back in place, Reverend Taske comes in. Within the blink of an eye, he seems to take in the entire scenario. He holds out his hand, and once Jack gives him the first aid kit, gestures for Jack to sit down. He looks at the cut on Jack’s hand.
“What happened?”
“I was having trouble reading,” Jack said. “I got angry.”
Taske searches to make sure no tiny bit of glass has lodged itself in the wound. “The glass means nothing.” He begins to disinfect the wound. “But your anger needs tending.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack says.
“Before you allow your temper to flare, think about why you’re angry.” Taske bandages the cut, then indicates the armoire. “I expect you’re wondering where that trapdoor leads.” He regards Jack sternly. “I can trust you, can’t I?”
Jack sits up straight. “Yes, sir.”
Reverend Taske gives him a wink. “You see, back in the thirties, when liquor was outlawed, these buildings were under the control of bootleggers—people who dealt in illegal liquor. There’s a tunnel under here that leads into Gus’s back room.” He closes up the kit, puts it away. “Now, let’s get back to Emily Dickinson.”
“I’ll never be able to get it,” Jack says in despair.
Taske bids him put down the slim volume. “Listen to me, Jack. Your brain is special. It processes things in a way mine can’t—in three dimensions.” He hands Jack a Rubik’s Cube. “The idea here is to get a solid color on each side of the cube. Go on. Give it a try.”
As Jack turns the cube, understanding comes to him full-blown, and he manipulates the mind-bending puzzle. He hands the cube back to Taske. Each side is a solid color.
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Taske says. “All the current literature claims you wouldn’t have trouble solving Rubik’s puzzle, but four minutes!” He whistles. “No one else I know can solve this, Jack, let alone so quickly.”
“Really?”
Taske smiles. “Really.”
Though it’s in a run-down neighborhood that could charitably be called marginal, the Renaissance Mission Church attracts a high level of media coverage and, therefore, attendance from local politicos. This is due to the benevolent work Reverend Taske does, rehabilitating hardened criminals of thirteen or fourteen, turning them into citizens of the District who make tangible contributions to their neighborhood. Taske’s admirable goal is to rehab the entire area, not by inviting white entrepreneurs to take over failing black businesses, but by creating black entrepreneurs who have the tools to turn these businesses into moneymaking operations. Unfortunately, in his neighborhood, the businesses that make the most money are those that run numbers, deploy prostitutes, deal drugs. Old habits are hard to break, especially those that have proved painlessly lucrative for their bosses. No schooling is needed, no learning to abide by the laws of the Man. No need to become civilized—or even civil, for that matter. All that’s required is muscle, guns, and a pair of brass balls.
That includes Andre. After taking his lumps from his boss, Cyril Tolkan, for beating up on Jack, Andre has moved up Tolkan’s crooked corporate ladder with alarming rapidity. Part of his motivation, of course, was to get out of Tolkan’s doghouse, but far more worrying is the flame of his ambition, which is burning brighter than even Gus had imagined. Andre never comes to the church anymore, and ever since Reverend Taske returned from Andre’s new lair with a black eye and a lacerated cheek, he doesn’t even mention his name. Gus, enraged, wanted to go after Andre himself, but Taske wouldn’t let him. Jack happens to overhear their conversation early one Sunday morning, which takes place in the rectory, where Jack is laboriously working his way through The Great Gatsby. The novel is interesting because, like Jack himself, Gatsby is an outsider. But it becomes downright fascinating when Jack, thumbing through a biography of F. Scott Fitzgerald he takes out of the local library, learns that the author was, like Jack himself, dyslexic.
“I’ve had enough standin’ aside while Andre goes off on ev’rybody,” Gus says.
“You just can’t abide him taking business from you,” Reverend Taske responds.
“Huh! Looka whut he did to you!”
“Occupational hazard,” Taske says. “You’re not my daddy, Augustus. I can take care of myself.”
“By turnin’ the other cheek.”
“That’s how I was taught, Augustus. That’s what I believe.”
“Whut you believe ain’t nuthin’ but a jackass’s brayin’.”
Jack sucks in his breath. He is compelled to get up, creep down the hall, put his eye to the crack between door and jamb he makes by pulling with his fingertips. In his limited line of vision, the Reverend Taske is eclipsed by Gus’s planetary shape.
“Because your ire is up, I’m going to ignore your insult to me, Augustus, but I can’t overlook your blasphemy toward God. When we’re done, I want you to make penance.”
“Not today, Reverend. I gots no truck with turnin’ the other cheek. Moment I knuckle to that, I’m shit outta business. You-all gonna tell me that if I don’t do fo’ myself, God will?”
“I am concerned for your immortal soul, Augustus,” Taske says slowly and carefully.
“Huh, you best be concerned with things that matter, like whut you gonna do ’bout expenses round here now that yo’ famous bank vice president got indicted for embezzlement. Reg’lators gone pulled the plug on all his deals, including the one that
’s been keeping this place afloat fo’ three years.”
Jack hears the creak of a chair, figures the reverend has sat heavily down. “You do have a point there, Augustus.”
“Now, you know I make a lotta money, Reverend, an’ I’ll give you as much as I can.”
“The church isn’t here to drain you of every penny you make.”
“Still an’ all,” Gus perseveres, “whatever I can muster won’t be enough. You gotta think long-term.”
“If you have a suggestion,” Taske says.
It’s at that point that Jack knocks on the door. There is a short startled silence, at the end of which Taske’s voice bids Jack enter.
Jack stands in the doorway until the reverend beckons him into the room. “What can I do for you, Jack? Having trouble decoding Fitzgerald’s prose?”
“It’s not that.” Jack is for a moment at a loss for words. Taske looks weary, older. Why hasn’t he noticed this before? Jack asks himself.
“Augustus and I are in the middle of a discussion, Jack,” Taske says kindly.
“I know, that’s why I came in.”
“Oh?”
“I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“Huh, you betta close that door good,” Gus says, “so you the on’y one.”
Jack shuts the door firmly, turns around. “I heard about the money crisis.”
“That’s none o’ yo’ business,” Gus says darkly.
“I think I have a way out,” Jack says.
The two men seem to hang suspended between disbelief and raucous laughter. The thought that a fifteen-year-old has seen a way out of the fiscal quicksand the Renaissance Mission Church has unceremoniously found itself in is, on the face of it, ludicrous. Except, as both men know, each in his own way, this is Jack—and Jack is capable of extraordinary leaps of logic that are beyond either of them.
So Taske says, “Go ahead, Jack. We’re listening.”
“I was thinking of Senator Edward Carson.”
Taske frowns. “What about him, son?”
“He was here last week,” Jack says. “I read the papers—you assign me to do that every day, and I do.”
Taske smiles. “I know you do.”
“I noticed that Senator Carson got a lot of great press out of his visit here. He even spent some time with the parishioners before and after the service. He said he used to sing in his choir back home in Nebraska. I heard him accept your invitation to sing with our choir today.”
“All true,” Taske agrees. “What exactly is your point, Jack?”
“There’s an election coming up this fall. Senator Carson’s campaign war chest is big. According to the papers, he’s the party’s great future hope. The bigwigs are rumored to be grooming him to run for president one day. Him being here last week and this, I think the rumor’s true. But to make a successful run, he’s going to need every vote he can get. Last time I looked, there weren’t too many blacks living in Nebraska, which is where the Renaissance Mission Church comes in.”
“Huh. Sounds like the kid’s on to sumthin’,” Gus says. “Yes, indeed.”
Taske’s mouth is half-open. Jack can just about see the gears mesh in his mind, the wheels begin to turn.
“I don’t believe it,” Taske says at length. “You want me to offer him votes for funding.”
Jack nods.
“But we’re one small community church.”
“Today you are,” Jack says. “That’s the beauty of the idea. You’re always talking about expanding beyond the neighborhood. This is your chance. With Senator Carson’s backing, the Renaissance Mission Church could go regional, then national. By the time he’s ready to make his run at the presidency, you’ll be in position to offer him the kind of help he’ll need most.”
Gus laughs. “This here boy thinks as big as the sky.”
“Yes,” Taske says slowly, “but he has a point.”
“Carson’s gotta go for it,” Gus cautions.
“Why won’t he?” Jack says. “He’s a successful politician. His livelihood depends on him making deals, accommodations, alliances. Think about it. There’s no downside for him. Even if you should fail, Reverend, he gets a ton of national press for helping a minority raise itself off its knees.”
“Jack’s right. The idea makes perfect sense,” Taske says. He’s chewing over the idea, looking at it from all angles. “And what’s more, it just might work!” Then he slams his palms down on the desk as he jumps up. “I knew it! The good Lord bringing you to us was a miracle!”
“Here we go,” Gus growls, but Jack can see he’s as proud of Jack as Taske is.
“My boy, who would have thought of this but you?” The Reverend Myron Taske takes Jack’s hand, pumps it enthusiastically. “I think you just might have saved us all.”
28
Lyn Carson stood at the bedroom window of the suite high up in the Omni Shoreham Hotel. Dusk was extinguishing the daylight, like a mother snuffing out candles one by one. Ribbons of lights moved along Massachusetts Avenue, and the skeletal structure of the Connecticut Avenue Bridge was lit by floodlights. She and her husband were here for a few days to escape the depressing reality that each hour of each day pressed more heavily in on them.
Alli was somewhere out there. Lyn tried willing her into being, to stand here, safe beside her.
Hearing Edward moving about in the sitting room, she turned. She knew why he liked this storied hotel above all others in the District. Though its architecture was blunt to the point of being downright ugly, it was downstairs in room 406D that Harry Truman, whom Edward so admired, had often come to play poker with his friends Senator Stewart Symington, Speaker of the House John McCormack, and Doorkeeper of the House Fishbait Miller.
Just then, her husband’s cell phone rang and her heart leapt into her throat. My Alli, my darling, she thought, running through the open doorway. Her thoughts swung wildly: They’ve found her, she’s dead, oh my God in Heaven, let it be good news!
But she stopped short when Edward, seeing the look on her face, gave her a quick shake of his head. No, it wasn’t news of Alli, after all. Churning with disappointment and relief, Lyn turned away, stumbled back to the sitting room, half-blinded by tears. Where are you, darling? What have they done to you?
She stood by the window, watching with a kind of irrational fury the indifferent world. How could people laugh, how could they be driving to dinner, having parties, making love, how could they be out jogging, or meeting under a lamppost. How could they be carefree when the world was so filled with dread? What was wrong with them?
She clasped her palms together in front of her breast. Dear God, she prayed for the ten-thousandth time, please give Alli the strength to survive. Please give Jack McClure the energy and wisdom to find her. God, give my precious daughter back to me, and I’ll sacrifice anything. Whatever you want from me I’ll gladly give, and more. You are the Power and the Glory forever and ever. Amen.
Just then she felt Edward’s strong arms around her, and her shell of toughness—hard but brittle—shattered to pieces. Tears welled out of her eyes and a sob was drawn up from the depths of her. She turned into his chest, weeping uncontrollably as black thoughts rolled through her mind like thunderheads.
Edward Carson held her tight, kissed the top of her head. His own eyes welled with tears of despair and frustration. “That was Jack. No news yet, but he’s making progress.”
Lyn made a little sound—half gasp, half moan—at the back of her throat.
“Alli’s a strong girl, she’ll be all right.” He stroked her back, soothing them both. “Jack will find her.”
“I know he will.”
They stood like that for a long time, above their own Washington, the world at their feet, the taste of ashes in their mouths. And yet their hearts beat strongly together, and where hearts were strong, they knew, there was fight yet left. There was hope. Hope and faith.
A sharp rap on the door to the sitting room caused them both to start.
&
nbsp; “It’s okay.” Edward Carson kissed her lightly on the lips. “Rest a little now before dinner.”
She nodded, watched him cross the bedroom, close the connecting door behind him. Rest, she thought. How does one rest with a heart full of dread?
The president-elect pulled the door open, stood aside so Dennis Paull could enter, then shut and locked it behind him.
“Nina delivered your message,” Carson said.
“The Secret Service agents outside?”
“Absolutely secure. You can take that to the bank.” He walked over to a sideboard. “Drink?”
“Nothing better.” Paull sat on a sofa that faced the astonishing view. “What I like most about flying is that you’re so high up, there’s nothing but sky. No woes, no uncertainty, no fears.”
He accepted the single-malt with a nod of thanks. Carson had no need of asking what Paull drank. The two men had known each other for many years, long before the current president had been elected to his first term. Two years into that first term, when Paull had been faced with carrying out yet another semi-legal directive he found personally abhorrent, he was faced with a professional dilemma. He might have tendered his resignation, but instead he’d gone to see Edward Carson. In hindsight, of course, Paull understood that he’d already made his choice, which was far more difficult and dangerous than simply throwing in the towel. He’d decided to stay on, to fight for the America he believed in in every way he could. His plan began with the alliance he and Edward Carson formed.
This was surprisingly easy. The two men held the same vision for America, which included returning the country to a healthy separation of church and state. Though fiscal conservatives, they were moderates in virtually every other area. They both disliked partisan politics and despised political hacks. They wanted to get on with things without being encumbered with pork barrel politics. They wanted to mend fences overseas, to try to undo the image of America as bully and warmonger. They wanted their country to be part of the world, separated from it only by oceans. At heart, each in his own way, had come to the same inescapable conclusion: America was at a critical crossroads. The country had to be healed. To do that, it had to be resurrected from the little death of the current administration’s policies. Otherwise, intimidation, divisiveness, and fear would be the legacy of the last eight years.
