Now we were sitting in an empty conference room, waiting, when the door was opened suddenly. In walked the man with the dimpled chin and scar. He made quick eye contact with each of us, plucked a book off a shelf and left again without a word.
Because I’ve spent many years in dangerous places, dealing with covert foreign-service types, I have a bad case of the overlies. I am overly suspicious. I am overly cautious. And I am overly aware that 99.9 percent of Americans are easy targets for anyone who wants to take advantage of them for any reason. Why? Because we never expect it. Not really.
So when the man closed the door, I stood and made a quick survey of the room, pretending to look at the same bookshelf, then through a window that opened onto a courtyard where a statue of a happy Buddha served as a fountain, pouring water onto a garden of stone.
On the wall, beneath a modernistic Darryl Pottorf painting, was a minicamera lens.
When I dropped the book I’d taken from the case, I knelt to retrieve it. Beneath the conference table, I saw at least one pen-sized microphone. Presumably, there were others.
Trying to communicate with Tomlinson and DeAntoni, using intense eye contact- We’re being recorded -I said, “It’s nice of Bhagwan Shiva to be so cooperative. He must be a decent sort of man.”
Tomlinson picked right up on it. “Oh, for sure, man, for sure. You read so much negative stuff these days about the religious types, it’s kind of refreshing to have the critics proven wrong.”
DeAntoni wasn’t so quick. “Hey… are you two guys out of your gourds? Shiva sounds like a fucking snake-oil salesman to me-and you know how I feel about snakes.”
My warning look stopped him. There were just the three of us now. When I’d asked Billie Egret if she wanted to listen to what Shiva had to say, she’d declined. “After five minutes alone with that man, I feel like I need a shower. We don’t have a shower on Chekika’s Hammock, and I’m not going back to my condo in Coral Gables until Monday afternoon. So thanks, but no thanks.”
Carter McRae wasn’t with us, either, because he had to drive to Naples Community Hospital to visit his wife.
So now the three of us sat, waiting. I had a strong suspicion that the man with the dimpled chin was now waiting, too. Probably in a separate office, eavesdropping, listening to what we had to say.
To Tomlinson, I said, “Tell Frank and me your theory about how earth energy works. Power places-the whole vortex philosophy. I really enjoy your insights.”
Tomlinson’s expression was one of surprise, then delight. “Are you serious? Man, I’d love to.”
I sat back, smiling at DeAntoni’s expression: Oh, God, here we go again…
I checked my watch, wondering how long dimple-chin could bear listening to Tomlinson’s philosophical rambling.
It wasn’t long.
The man who called himself Bhagwan Shiva was a sportsman. An outdoorsman-he told us that. A regular sort. He liked getting outside, hitting the ball around on the tennis court, or playing eighteen. He particularly liked shooting trap-which he was scheduled to do right now.
We were in an elongated golf cart that had a Rolls-Royce grille. Dimple-chin was driving. Smiling, not saying much. He’d yet to introduce himself, deferential in the same way a chauffeur would not presume to introduce himself to people he was being paid to drive.
Shiva was wearing a collarless Nehru shooting jacket, khaki slacks tucked into snake boots, and a purple safa-a turban made from a single, colorful strip of cloth. Several shotguns, in aluminum cases, were stacked at angles on the seat beside him. He might have been a rajah on his way to a tiger hunt on the Punjab.
His tone personable, upbeat, Shiva said, “I’m sure you’ve known priests, other clergymen-political leaders. There’s an example-men who’ve had a strong calling to serve. Underneath it all, though, we’re people. I’m just a man. Just like anyone else. With certain gifts, of course.” He looked at Tomlinson, who was seated beside him, when he added, “We all have our own peculiar gifts, don’t you agree?”
Tomlinson answered, “Oh, for sure, for sure. Some more peculiar than others.”
Which made DeAntoni chuckle.
There was a perceptible tension between Tomlinson and the Bhagwan, which I found interesting. There was an instant animus, like opposite poles meeting. When Shiva introduced himself, Tomlinson pretended as if he did not see the man’s outstretched hand-a subtle refusal that caused Shiva momentary embarrassment.
This was a stubborn, confrontational Tomlinson I’d never seen before.
Now they were trading far more subtle barbs.
“My point,” Shiva continued, “is that I want you gentlemen to feel at ease during our visit. I suspect you’re aware of who I am, what I’ve tried to accomplish for the world as a spiritual leader. It… it intimidates some people. What I’m telling you is, there’s no need to treat me any differently. We’re all on the same level here.”
In the same veiled tone, Tomlinson replied, “Don’t sell yourself short, Mr. Singh. You’re on a much different level.”
Which irked the man. Even sitting on the rear bench of the golf cart, I could see the skin of Shiva’s face tighten into a forced smile. “Perhaps you have a point, Mr. Tomlinson. It’s true that I have-and this is just a rough estimate-but I have more than a quarter-million followers around the world.”
Tomlinson replied, “Really? I’m curious. What happens when your followers catch up? Do they still cling to the initial delusion?”
Shiva started to say something, but then reacted with a forced laugh. “Are you trying to insult me, Mr. Tomlinson?”
“No-o-o-o, man, of course not. I wouldn’t try to insult you. I wouldn’t want to risk being misunderstood.”
“I see.” Shiva was still smiling, showing us he was under control once again. “You seem so sure of yourself; so quick to judge. That’s such an endearing… childlike quality. I bet… I bet that you’re the kind of man who still plays children’s games.”
Tomlinson patted the cased shotguns. “You mean the kind of games that don’t involve metaphorical penis symbols?”
“Oh, now, now, now, please. I bet that, secretly, you like things that go boom. What child doesn’t like an explosion?”
He meant something by that. Which caused Tomlinson to stumble. It set me back a beat, too.
Shiva continued smoothly, “I don’t claim always to be accurate, but clairvoyance is one of my peculiar gifts. Give me a moment to concentrate…” Shiva had both of his palms pressed to his temples. After a few seconds, he said, “… the children’s game you play is baseball. Yes, baseball. And the position you play… I don’t know the American equivalent, but in the sport of cricket, you’d be called a ‘bowler.’”
Dimple-chin said, “A pitcher. That’s the same thing.”
DeAntoni said, “Is that true, he’s a pitcher? Come to think of it, he does look like a pitcher. I’ll be damned. How do you people do that?”
I was thinking: They did a computer search while we were waiting, as Shiva continued, “I perceive that you feel you are an excellent pitcher. In fact, I perceive that you feel superior in a number of ways. Ego-that’s a character flaw you should address, Mr. Tomlinson. In a book, I once wrote, ‘A large ego is the favorite habitat of a small mind.’”
Tomlinson replied, “Interesting. So tell me, what’s it like, having all that room for your brain to move around in?”
Shiva fired back, “You must be speaking of my Palm Beach Ashram. You should come and visit one day, experience it for yourself. You’d have a chance to understand that there’s a far more satisfying world waiting for someone like you. Many drug addicts-even unconvicted murderers -have found peace and health there. What would you say if I challenged you to come and sit through my Basic Auditing lecture?”
Pulling at his scraggly hair, not smiling and as troubled as I’ve ever seen him, Tomlinson replied, “I’d probably tell you the truth, Jerry: I’m just too fucking busy. Or vice versa.”