Not that he’d seen me — I was plastered next to the doors, along one side, just peeking out. But he was up to the curb-parked cars now and maybe I should split.
Then — from somewhere off to my right, where they’d sat in a car maybe, or just waited by the building — came the two fake hippies. They approached him quickly.
So it was a bust...
...only it wasn’t.
Right there on the sidewalk, so close I could have burst through the doors and jumped them, André carefully withdrew a plump paper sack, its top folded over, about big enough for a couple loaves of bread. But I didn’t figure what he handed the pair was bread.
Speaking of which, they gave André a fat envelope in exchange, which the skinny staffer opened to riffle through two inches of green, not counting, just confirming.
For one dumb moment, I thought, They’re dirty cops, but then I realized in a saner second that they weren’t any more cops than they were hippies. André was the mule making a delivery, and they were just picking up the goods.
Flunkies.
Like André.
Whose boss was downstairs, his manner majestic, his words stirring, as he built up the hopes of a bunch of college kids and science-fiction dorks, telling them how they could make the world a better, safer place.
Meanwhile, a fake hippie was sticking a switchblade tip into each of two plastic-wrapped not-bread loaves, coming back with white powder, which he tasted and approved.
Nine
After the event, the tired but exhilarated staffers climbed on the bus and were taken to downtown DeKalb and dumped, with rides back scheduled at eleven and midnight. The farm community had a fairly lively main drag, with restaurants, bars, clubs and a movie with a nine o’clock show.
Ruth and I wound up at the Pizza Villa. On a Saturday night, this very old-fashioned red-and-white-checked-tablecloth joint was bustling and we waited half an hour for seating, and another half hour for the pie. We covered a lot of topics along the way.
Waiting on a bench, marinara sauce in our nostrils, “O Sole Mio” (Connie Francis) in our ears, I asked Ruth innocently, “Where does the Reverend get his funding?”
She shrugged. She was still in that zebra-print dress and looked fantastic. “Well, he’s paid for his speaking engagements, in most cases. There are donations, of course, including some from very wealthy people, black and white. He’s written three books that generate considerable royalties. And, of course, most of the staff is unpaid.”
“How do these kids afford that?”
“The normal Coalition staff is much smaller — this is a political campaign, remember. How can they afford it? Well, the white ones, frankly, have parents who fund their airy-fairy activities, despite not agreeing with them. Thank God for unconditionally loving parents.”
Not how I’d describe mine.
“What about the others?”
“You mean the black ones? Some are recent grads who haven’t found meaningful paying work yet. You’ll notice many only work half-days, because they have other jobs. Some have taken leaves of absence from work and tap into their savings. We have several substitute teachers among us, and accountants and—”
“Well-educated people.”
“That’s right. We’re fussy about who we take on.”
Not that fussy. I was here.
She was saying, “I’m sure you know why the Reverend insists on suits for the men and fairly conservative clothing for the women, at headquarters. We have to put a good face on who and what we are.”
“How many staffers are actually paid?”
“Myself, Raymond’s, uh... the Reverend’s driver, and his two personal assistants—”
“You mean bodyguards.”
She shrugged, nodded. “Yes. Death threats, like I told you. And of course Mr. Jackson, Harold, who is quite a public speaker himself, which is another source of income. There’s Monique, who’s really skilled secretarially...” Her dark eyes saddened. “We used to be such good friends.”
Monique was almost as attractive as Ruth, a short, shapely girl in her twenties who had not gone the Afro route, sticking more with a Ronnie Spector look.
“What happened between you two?” I asked.
“You know.”
“The... fling?”
A shrug, a nod. “She hasn’t spoken to me in weeks.”
I wondered if Monique had had her own fling with the boss, but didn’t offer up the possibility for discussion.
“And I’m stuck rooming with her here,” she said with a sigh. “A roommate who stays mute till she goes to sleep, and then her lousy snoring keeps me up half the night.”
“Well, I have a room to myself. There’s a couch.”
“I couldn’t impose.”
“Right, a terrible imposition, sharing a room with a lovely woman like you.”
She tilted her head. Narrowed her eyes. “It would have to be strictly two staffers just sharing a room. Nothing else. Nothing more.”
“You can trust me. The Coalition is very fussy about who they put on staff, you know.”
Her chin raised and she studied me. “Do you snore?”
“No complaints so far.”
“...We’ll see.”
A waiter finally ushered us to a booth. Some piped-in asshole was singing “Funiculi, Funicula.” Come back, Connie, come back.
At least the pizza was good, very crisp, lots of sauce, not too much cheese, some zing to the pepperoni.
“So,” I asked her, “what’s your training?”
“I’m a legal secretary.”
“No wonder they have to pay you. A degree like that takes money.”
“Usually. But I don’t come from money. My father I never met, my mother is on welfare, and my two younger sisters, by another long-gone daddy, are still in high school. I won’t kid you. It’s a struggle.”
“But you went to college?”
She bit off the end of a pizza slice and nodded. Chewed, swallowed, said, “I was always a good student.”
“You must have been some kind of genius.”
“Well... I did get a full-ride scholarship at Washington.”
“What Washington? State, D.C...?”
“Washington University. Back in St. Louis. Lived there all my life.”
“And are still there, I see.”
“Still there.” Another bite. More chewing followed by a swallow. She licked sauce off her upper lip. “And still living with my mom and my sisters.”
“That must be nice. To be able to get them into better circumstances.”
Her smile was saucy, in several senses. “Not really. We still live in Pruitt-Igoe.”
“What’s that?”
Her smile was amazed. “Never heard of it? But then you’re an Idaho boy.”
Actually Ohio, but she wasn’t to know that.
I said, “So it’s some kind of slum?”
A smirk, a nod. “A housing project in the ’50s that just went almost immediately to shit. Crime-ridden, poorer than poor. A war zone. They’re demolishing a lot of the buildings right now.”
“Good thing you’re out of town.”
That made her laugh. “Well, there are... or were... something like thirty-three buildings. But there have always been pockets of that nasty place that weren’t so bad. Floors where the tenants knew each other, where there were a limited number of families, who took pride in maintaining their apartments. Who lobbied for playgrounds and gardens. But it’s coming to an end, bad and good. The buildings will all be down before you know it.”
“What will you do?”