Heavenly Hoboes

by Bob Brewer

Roland Thompson’s exclusive report hit the national wires the moment Rayford Manson finished a quick edit. And just as Rayford had predicted, the story made the front page on every newspaper of any importance in the country the following morning. While the piece was definitely centered on the Mafia connection and the hoodwinking of the populace, Roland was smart enough to give himself a hold card. The last few sentences of his article comprised an admission that some of the witnesses swore that the miracle was truly the work of God.

  But it was a case of too little too late. Had Roland done his job of reporting properly he would have found that everyone who had witnessed the miracle with an open mind could not be swayed. To those people the miracle was indelibly imprinted and irreversibly real. But the testimonies of these true believers would have to wait for Harley Goodhouse’s article to come out in the weekly Monitor, still three days away. For now, the story people saw was one that Roland had based on the feelings of the local ministry and a few other skeptics he had run into on the streets, like Sister Allecia. The story was simple. The gangland guys had gotten themselves knee-deep in bible-belt religion, and they were making a killing on it. That wasn’t good news to several people in high stations.

  Gerald Dodge had worked at the Bureau for twenty-three years. He was like part of the woodwork and felt that way most of the time, but his retirement was coming up and he had built himself a good nest egg. Another few months and he could tell them where to put the job. He was feeling pretty secure until the cellphone on his nightstand jingled him awake at 0610 hours. He glanced at the clock and flipped the cover open on the phone. It was Stacy Hamilton, his secretary. He had forgotten to roll back the call-forwarding on the office line when he got home the night before, but she didn’t give him the chance to apologize for the mistake. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Dodge.” Her voice sounded rushed. “But the President wants to talk to you. Can you believe it, I’ve got him on hold?”

  “The President? Of the United States?”

  “One and the same. Shall I give him your cell number?”

  “Yeah. I mean sure, Stacy, thanks.”

  Before Dodge could get out of bed, the cell jingled again.

  “Gerry. Thanks for taking my call,” the President said crisply. Twenty-three years in the force and not once had any of the four presidents he had served under even bothered to wave to him. And now, here was a personal call and a president using his nickname like they were old friends. His mind raced with possibilities.

  “Mr. President,” Gerald answered.

  “Gerry, I, uh, I wonder if you’d do me a favor?”

  Gerald rubbed his eyes open and let his feet search the floor for his slippers. “Certainly, Mr. President, anything I can.”

  “Well, it’s actually not for me as much as it is for the First Lady. But it’s about this little fiasco over in the Midwest. Midvale, specifically.”

  “I guess you’ve got me at a disadvantage, Mr. President. I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

  “Do you subscribe to a paper, Gerry?

  “Four of them, Mr. President. I like to get the different slants.”

  “Good. If you’ll open one of them up you’ll see what I’m talking about. The same story’s in each of them. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

  Gerald laid the phone on the bed, hurried to the bathroom then ran to the front door and grabbed a paper off the step. “Mafia Manipulates God”. The headline was expanded to take up the entire top of the paper. Gerald scanned the article quickly then retrieved the phone. “I just glanced through it, Mr. President, and off the top of my head it sounds like something the Justice Department or the CIA should look into.”

  “Uh, yeah, well, Gerry, I, uh, oh hell, there’s no sense in beating around the bush. The First Lady wants you to take care of it. She’s of the opinion that you’re the best guys to get in there and get this mess cleared up before it gets any more out of hand. You know she’s pretty fundamental when it comes to religion. And right now she’s about as upset as I’ve ever seen her.”

  “Well, Mr. President, it’s really not under our jurisdiction, but I’ll see what I can do. Does the Director know about this yet?”

  “I, uh, I don’t think we need to get him involved at this point, Gerry. Let’s just keep this between us for now. I’ve got every faith in you. I’m certain you will figure out how to bring it all together. Keep me informed, and give my regards to the Mrs.”

  Gerald didn’t have a Mrs. “Certainly, Mr. President,” he said. The call ended and Gerald got Stacy back on the line. “Call Chamberlain and Hart and have them read the front page of the paper and be in my office at eight.”

  Stacy had coffee and doughnuts ready when Gerald arrived. She poured four cups, set the pastries out on napkins and sat down to join the meeting. “Well,” Gerald said. “What did you all think of the story?”

  “Depends,” Chamberlain said. “Do you mean the Mafia part or the God part?”

  “I didn’t see the God part,” Gerald answered. “Probably should have spent a little more time on it. What did it say about God?”

  “There’s some people who swear it’s on the level,” Stacy said. “But there’s not enough meat to get a good feel about it.”

  “The journalist brushed over it right at the last,” Hart added. “But, what does all this have to do with us?”

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Chamberlain said. “As far as I could tell, they haven’t done anything that would warrant our intervention.” He stared hard at Gerald. “ Unless you know something we don’t.”

  Dodge shook his head. “Nope, nothing in the closet. The reason you’re here, and don’t let this leave the room, is that the First Lady requested us.”

  “Really?” said Stacy.

  “Why us?” Hart asked. “If anybody’s going to check it out it ought to be the Justice boys.” He stopped to run a hand over his chin. “But, you know, there’s something about the whole thing that doesn’t ring true. I mean how is the Mafia or anybody else going to fool anybody into believing God is visiting them. It can’t be just a simple case of magic, or what did they call it, High-Tech Pyrotechnics.”

  Chamberlain washed down a mouthful of doughnut. “Speaking of the Mafia. How do you suppose this Collingsworth guy figured that out?”

  “Don’t know,” Dodge said. “But that’s the way it stands as far as everybody is concerned. And it looks like it’s up to us to sort it all out.”

  “What does the Director say about it?” Hart asked, and Gerald gave him a shrug. “He knows, doesn’t he?” Hart said.

  “More coffee?” Stacy asked.

  Hart pressed for an answer. “He does know, right?”

  “No, he doesn’t. At least on the surface,” Dodge answered as he twisted two fingers to cross themselves on one hand. He held the hand up. “You know the president and him are like this. If this whole thing were to blow up in our faces, he would be held to blame, unless of course he didn’t know about it.”

  “Right,” Chamberlain said. “I get the picture. So, what are we going to do?”

  Dodge finished off his coffee. “Try to make it as legal as we can. If we can get them to cross the state-line with their scam we can tackle it without recourse.”

  “So, how do we accomplish that?” Chamberlain asked.

  “That’s what we’ve got to figure out today,” Dodge said. “Eat up boys, it’s going to be a long one.”

  The Midvale matter was being discussed in a totally different light on the east side of Chicago,.

  “It’s all set, Boss,” Antonio Pasta informed the squat, gray-haired man behind the massive mahogany desk. He pointed at the telephone. “I turned the volume up so you could hear them okay.”

  “That’s good, Anti,” the boss said as he dumped the remainder of his cigar in the marble ashtray and switched his speaker box on. “You all there?” he asked the box. It answered in a g
arble of noise, and he threw up a hand signal of frustration at Pasta. “Okay, okay,” he went on, “let’s have it by the numbers. Guerro?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lido?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Santini?”

  There was a pause. The boss looked at Pasta like it was his fault, to which Pasta squeezed his lips together and shrugged. “He was there, Boss,” he said, pointing to the box. “I talked to him, myself.”

  “Santini!” the boss yelled.

  “Holy balls!” the box answered in the mixed voices of Guerro and Lido.

  In half a second a third voice sounded. “Hey, this is Santini.” The sound of a woman’s giggle in the background filtered through the line.

  “We’re not inconveniencing you are we, Mr. Santini?” the boss said slowly.

  “No, Boss. No sweat,” Santini answered, and the boss changed his tone.

  “Lose the company, Louie. We got business to take care of.”

  A whisper of muffled sounds came through the speaker then Santini was back. “Okay, Boss.”

  “Okay, I’m gonna ask a question and I expect a straight answer, one at a time. Which one of you’s got the action in Midvale?”

  The box went silent for a long moment then Lido spoke up. “You got to be kiddin’, Boss. There ain’t no action in Midvale.”

  “I never kid,” the boss said in the familiar deadly tone they all knew meant big trouble for them.

  “Hey, come on, Boss,” Guerro’s voice sounded. “What action you talkin’ about?”

  “Yeah, what action?” Santini’s voice broke in.

  The boss looked up at Antonio and shrugged his shoulders. He switched the speaker to mute then lit another cigar and watched the cloud of smoke dissipate before saying anything. Then, making a face of uncertainty, he asked Pasta, “Whatta you make of it, Anti?”

  Pasta raised his eyebrows. “They’re either too dumb to know what’s going on in their district or they’re in it together. It’s that simple, Boss.”

  After a couple of seconds thought, the boss nodded then flipped the conference call back on. “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. All of you know Antonio. I’m sending him in my place. You make arrangements to pick him up at the airport this afternoon.” He paused and glanced up through the circle of cigar smoke. “I want each of you to know that Antonio is very dear to me. I expect him back here tomorrow in the same good health. Lo capite?”

  “Hey!” Santini’s voice shouted. “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “No problem, Boss,” Guerro said.

  “We’ll show him a good time,” Lido replied.

  “Well?” said Santini. “Are you going to tell me what’s happening?”

  Pasta leaned over the boss’ desk. “I’ll tell you when I get there. I’ll call you back and give you the time.”

  The boss switched the speaker off and ended the call. “Keep an eye on Santini,” he warned, then shook his head and blew a long puff of smoke across the desk. “Ahh, Anti. It’s a good thing Mama Lucia is dead and gone, God rest her soul. If she knew about this thing she’d have a heart attack and die all over again.” Pasta bowed his head and the boss nodded to the show of respect. “Better get some things together. Call me when you get there.”

  “No problem, Boss,” Pasta answered with a wink and a fist mortared into a palm.

  The boss managed a thin smile at the inference of Antonio’s gesture. “Call me,” he repeated, and Pasta left to check on the family business down in Midvale.

  In Windsor, the ‘Rte.66’ clock on the wall of Dwayne Pearson’s office registered eight-o-five when the telephone rang. “Mr. Pearson, he’s on line two,” Margaret’s normally sweet voice said in a sour tone.

  “How’s he sound?”

  “I don’t use that kind of language,” Margaret said.

  Dwayne sighed then mumbled a curse under his breath. “Tell him I’m out.”

  “Won’t work,” said Margaret. “I already tried and he said to find you in the next three minutes or I could find another job.”

  “Okay,” Dwayne said, then took in a deep breath. “Put him on.”

  “Pearson!” The loud voice rattled Dwayne’s earpiece. “Childers.”

  Dwayne Pearson was the manager of KRTV in Windsor, an affiliate station of Continental Broadcasting Corporation. Bruce Childers was the vice president of Continental Broadcasting in charge of news releases.

  “Yes, Sir,” Dwayne’s voice dwarfed its way back.

  “What’s going on down there? I was just handed a newspaper. I never read a newspaper, Pearson, do you?” Dwayne answered ‘no’. “Well, by God, you’d better start. That’s where the news seems to be.”

  “You’re talking about the Miracle,” Dwayne stated. “I thought it might be too controversial…”

  Childers didn’t let him finish. “You thought?” Childers boomed. “You get your tail over there right now. I mean you, personally. I don’t want to see anything on the tube tonight except miracle news. You understand me?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Dwayne answered meekly. “I’ll…”

  Childers cut him off again. “What are you waiting for? Easter?” He shouted the question then hung up.

  Within minutes, Pearson and his camera crew were in the truck and on their way to Midvale.

  But the biggest surprise contained in Roland’s story came to Deacon Collingsworth when he withdrew his copy of the Windsor Chronograph from the rural mailbox that morning. “Oh my God!” he cried out when his photograph stared back at him with a caption under it that read “Deacon Rats Out Mafia”. The picture was a bit blurred by a screenlike mesh but it was unmistakably him, standing, snarling, and pounding a fist on a tabletop.

  “Deacon Milton J. Collingsworth, filling in for Reverend T.L. Hershey of the Midvale Brotherhood of The Valley Community Church, 1301 W. Salem Street, informed the Chronograph today that the so-called Miracle of Midvale is nothing more than a money bilking scheme set up by the syndicate of mobsters more commonly known as the Mafia…” the article began. “Oh my God!” he kept repeating as he sat on the curb and read down through the column.

  Father Coombs, who had made the original accusation of the Mafia’s involvement, and the one Collingsworth had merely repeated, was nowhere mentioned. It was evident that the reporter had based his entire story on this single offhand remark given in the heat of discussion and supposedly in private. But the damage was irreversible. Sole blame and sole credit now belonged to one man, Deacon Milton J. Collingsworth. Without finishing the article or bothering with breakfast he threw a few things in a suitcase and got out of town as quickly as he could.

  Not having the Deacon’s worries, Atchinson, Coombs, Meade and the remainder of the Organized Ministry were out early scouting the town for Abe and Shorty. The archdeacon, Bishop Duncan, and for the time being, Bishop Riley had moved into Father Coombs’ quarters and waited there for the scouting party to bring them news. They had raided the refrigerator three times and were finishing up a big-pot poker hand when Reverend Meade burst in at eleven o’clock and broke up the game. “We’ve looked the town over high and low, fellows. He’s not here.”

  The Archdeacon raked a goodly sized stack of bills off the table and stood. “There’s a possibility that our presence has discouraged him, gentlemen. He may never show up again.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Bishop Riley said, slipping his playing money into a snap purse.

  “That reminds me,” Atchinson said as he walked up behind Reverend Meade, “I heard he didn’t take up a collection last night.”

  “I heard that, too,” Meade said. “I’ll tell you, something’s brewing. Just as sure as we’re standing here, that hypocrite is up to no good.”

  Bishop Riley stood and dropped his little purse into a pocket. “Do you think one of you gentlemen could get someone to drive me to Windsor? I really should be getting back to my own are
a.”

  Bishop Duncan scowled. “We all know you don’t want anything to do with this, Bishop, none of us do, but you’re here. And who knows, if they’re moving on they might just be in your diocese next time. I think you owe it to yourself to stay and see this through.”

  Bishop Riley gave him a reluctant nod and sat back down.

  “So,” Bishop Duncan said. “I suppose the only thing to do now is to wait and see if he decides to hold another meeting this evening. Until then, I propose we get some rest.”

  The group agreed to meet again at the park that evening to see if Abraham was still in town.

  Unlike the Organized Ministry, Sister Allecia didn’t give up on the search so early. She and her revitalized mob were tearing the boards off the abandoned bowling alley’s doors when Officers Clements and Robins made the mistake of stopping to investigate their activity.

  The two officers backed off when the big sister told them who she was searching for. They had received direct orders from Junior Williams to leave Douglas and McDougal alone as long as they weren’t flagrantly breaking any of the town’s ordinances.

  “We’re going to find him no matter what it takes,” Allecia told Clements. “The worm deserves no mercy.”

  Officer Clements held his hands up in front of her. “You ladies can’t be going around destroying private property like you’re doing here. Now why don’t you all go home and let the law take care of this?”

  “The law? Ha!,” Sister Allecia laughed. “You’re the law, aren’t you? Or are we paying you to pussyfoot around and play with your siren?”

  “As a matter of fact, ma’am,” Robins said, “we’re only representatives of the law.”

  “That’s right, Miss…” Clements started.

  “Mizz!” Allecia blared.

  “Mizz,” Clements corrected himself. “What Officer Robins said is correct. Until a crime’s been committed our hands are tied.”

  “A crime?” Allecia yelled. “He’s robbing the town blind, you idiots, right in front of your noses, and you don’t call that a crime?”

  Clements shot a glance at Robins who in turn headed for the cruiser. “I’ll call it in,” he said on the run, and Clements turned back to Allecia.

  “They’ll know about it down at headquarters,” he told her. “I’ll just go listen in.”

  Before he got to the car, Robins stood and called to him. “They don’t know anything about a robbery. Where’s it supposed to be anyhow?”

  Allecia stomped her foot and growled, “Let’s go, ladies. He must be down at the Police Station. That’s the only place we haven’t looked.”

  While Robins was trying to get Gertrude back on the radio to warn them that Allecia and her mob were coming, a private chartered jet was just completing its taxi at the Windsor airport. Guerro, Lido and Santini were waiting for its single passenger to deboard.

  “You guys sure you’re not holdin’ out on me?” the worried Santini asked for the third time.

  “Whatta you so nervous about?” Guerro answered as he popped an antacid tablet into the hole under his mustache.

  “Tony’s gonna straighten it all out,” Lido said without looking up from his nail cleaning.

  Santini eyed them both fearfully, then resumed his pacing. He was sure the two of them had set him up and that Antonio was coming to finish the dirty work. That was Antonio’s job and he was very good at it.

  “Where can we talk?” Pasta greeted them when he got to Lido’s limousine. “And what’s the meaning of this?” he said, flicking an open hand at the big car. “You trying to win a stupidity contest, or what?”

  “Hey, Tony,” Lido answered. “We just wanted to make you comfortable. You don’t like the car? I’ll burn it. Whatever you want, Tony.”

  Pasta pushed past them and crawled into the door the driver was holding open. “Get in,” he said.

  “How about my place, Tony?” Guerro asked as he got in beside Pasta. “It’s close and no bugs.”

  Santini sat across from them. “What’s this all about, Tony?” he asked as Lido joined them. The driver closed the door.

  Pasta shushed him. He nodded to Lido and looked towards the glass divider between them and the driver. “Tell him to get us outta here.”

  Lido informed the driver then opened a small suitcase and pushed it on the floor over to Pasta. “Didn’t want you to feel naked, Tony,” he said as Antonio looked down at the arsenal of handguns in the case. “Take your choice, there all loaded and clean.” Pasta nodded, picked up an automatic with a silencer on it and laid it on the briefcase beside him then pushed the suitcase back to Lido with his foot. They settled in for the silent twenty-minute drive to Guerro’s villa.

  Guerro’s place sat nearly on the top of the only hill within a hundred miles of Windsor. A high rock fence all around it gave it the appearance of being a medium sized fortress. The only way in was by way of a switchback paved road or via helicopter. A guard stood watch at the entrance gate.

  Santini let out a deep breath when they reached the main gate and the guard waved them through. He didn’t think he would make it this far.

  Guerro led them to his billiard room where Pasta opened the meeting. “Okay. Which one of you wants to start?”

  “Start what?” Santini blurted out his bafflement.

  Lido spoke up. “Why don’t you do us the honor, Tony?”

  Pasta opened his briefcase and took out a handful of newspapers. “One or all of you made a big mistake when you started this without letting the boss’ know about it.”

  All three of them, gave him a puzzled look. “Whatta you got there? Newspapers?” Santini asked.

  “Take a look at the front page,” Pasta said, throwing the papers at them. They each grabbed up a copy and unfolded it. The dumbfounded looks on their faces told Pasta that the news really was news to them.

  “Hey, I don’t know nothin’ about this,” Lido said, holding the paper out and shaking it fiercely.

  “Holy, holy, holy,” Guerro repeated and looked straight at Santini.

  Santini started shaking his head rapidly back and forth. He held his hands up in front of himself and backed away. “You gotta be crazy if you think I’d do something like this.”

  “You expect me to believe what I’m hearing?” Pasta pressed them.

  “Whatta you think I am? A damned atheist?” Guerro fired back at him.

  “Hey, Tony, I belong to three different churches. You know that,” Lido said, and all eyes again fell on Santini.

  The frightened Santini made a cross sign over his face and chest. “On my mother’s grave, I got no part in this,” he cried out.

  Pasta rubbed his face then gave them all a look that said he didn’t like it but he believed them. “So, what’s going on?” he said. “You guys are supposed to be running the show down here. Don’t you read the papers, listen to the radio, watch TV?” He shook his head. “The boss ain’t going to believe this. How could someone horn in on your territory without you at least knowing about it? I mean, don’t you have any kind of communications set up?”

  Guerro hung his head. “This is real embarrassing, Tony. I can’t imagine nobody doing something like this. They got no respect for nothing. No respect.”

  “We gotta straighten it out,” said Lido. “Whoever’s doing this thing’s gotta pay.”

  “I’ll do the job, myself,” Santini said, his voice echoing a sense of urgency. “That is unless you feel you gotta handle it, Tony.”

  Pasta walked around the desk, picked up the telephone and dialed the boss’s number. “Give me some privacy,” he said, motioning them out of the room. “And, Lido?” Lido turned back to him. “Get rid of the limo. We don’t need no more attention than we’ve already got.”