by Edward Klein
“Good to meet you, Alfie,” the Reverend said. “Vangie tells me you’re the guy who has his finger on CLIT.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Alfie, it’s always a pleasure to meet the man who can pull the trigger.” He laughed uproariously.
Boy, what a sense of humor. I could tell we were in for a long night.
He took us in a private elevator down to his office. The entire basement level was a high-tech command post for the Reverend Wright’s organization. Phones were ringing. Fax machines were spitting out documents. It was like the corporate HQ of a Fortune 500 company—and yet all this activity was taking place in a church basement on a Saturday evening at 6 p.m.
“This is really impressive,” Vangie said.
“Vangie, there’s much more going on in black churches these days than just gospel music,” the Reverend Wright informed us. “Those white born-again churches—mega-churches, they call them—those churches have expanded their reach through the use of TV. They’ve got tens of thousands of congregants, and each one of them pays through the nose. That young preacher with the hot wife, Joel Osteen—the Bushes pray there when they’re in Houston—Osteen grosses over $50 million a year. And all his books are on the best-seller lists. He even has his own jet. But we in the African community haven’t caught up with the Osteens of this world. Not yet, anyway. I aim to make Trinity United Church the flagship of a national African church for all our brothers and sisters. And Barack Obama’s going to be the poster boy for my church.”
All the time he was talking, he kept staring at my solid-gold Patek Philippe watch. If he wasn’t a holy man, I’d swear he wanted to rip it right off my wrist.
We entered the Reverend Wright’s conference room. It reminded me of the White House Situation Room—a sleek, long table with high-backed leather chairs and drop-down screens for video conference calls. The Reverend Wright pointed to a wall of signed photographs and memorabilia. The biggest picture showed President Lyndon Baines Johnson laying in a hospital bed in pajamas next to a much younger-looking Jeremiah Wright in medical scrubs. It was autographed: “To Jeremiah, thank you for getting me through tough times. I owe you my life. Sincerely, Lyndon.”
“I was the president’s navy nurse in Bethesda when he had gall bladder surgery,” Wright announced proudly. “Lyndon Johnson and I established a deep bond and stayed in touch for the rest of the president’s life. That man taught me everything I know about politics, including how to spend money you ain’t got.” He gave my watch another significant look. The next thing I knew, he’d be asking for it as a “donation.”
He moved down the wall to the next group of photographs. Most were of hairy, disheveled white guys—beards, mustaches, fu manchus—in ratty-looking jackets, baggy shirts, and blue jeans.
One autograph read, “To J. Wright, a true Revolutionary! Love, Jerry.”
The next one read, “Jeremiah, the Establishment will one day learn you are the Wright man to change our corrupt society. Best Wishes, Tom.”
And yet another read, “In order to bring about radical reform of this goddamn America, you have to be radical, man! I am with you always!” It was signed, “Abbie.
“These white boys might as well be brothers,” the Reverend Wright sighed. “They went to jail for us. True heroes—they took it to the streets right here in Chicago. Jerry Rubin, Tom Hayden, and Abbie Hoffman. Dear, dear friends of mine. I was so sad when Abbie passed. We held a service here for him. Imagine that! A Jew boy honored in this African church!”
I looked over to see how Vangie was taking this, and she rolled her eyes.
“Now,” the Reverend said, “let me show you my real dream.”
He led us over to a low table. On it stood an architectural model of a McMansion complete with a turret, a glass-enclosed arboretum, an indoor pool, and a basketball court. With a finger he pressed down one of the hoops, and when he let it go, it sprang right back up.
“My fantasy home,” he said. “And thanks to our Sunday collections, my generous congregants are making my fantasy come true. I’m movin’ into this house in a few months.”
Then he pointed across the room to a life-size color photograph of himself with another smiling, happy-looking man. Underneath this photograph, on Illinois State Senate stationery, was a letter addressed to the Reverend with these words:
“To my real African father. Thank you for giving me the audacity of hope. Sincerely Yours, Barack.”
People started filing into the conference room. The Reverend Wright took his place at the head of the table, and the others arranged themselves in pre-assigned seats.
“Good evening, brothers and sisters,” the Reverend Wright said. “Most of you are already acquainted with the attractive lady in the elegant dress who’s sitting at the other end of the table from me. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, let me introduce Valerie Jarrett.”
Valerie Jarrett was dressed in an elegant red suit with a matching camisole, and big pearl earrings. She nodded to the people around the table.
“Valerie’s worked for the late Mayor Harold Washington and the Daley family,” the Reverend Wright continued. “She knows where all the bodies are buried. She gave Michelle Obama her first major job, and helped run Barack’s Senate campaign. If you want Barack to do something, there are only two people he’s not going to say no to: Valerie Jarrett and Michelle Obama. Valerie understands Barack. She ‘gets’ him. She’s his intermediary to the outside world. We’re proud to have Valerie here with us tonight.”
There was a polite round of applause.
“Now,” he continued, “the white guy sitting on Valerie’s right…”
The people at the table began to titter, and I looked hard at the semi-old geezer Wright was pointing at. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
“…the white fellow is Professor Bill Ayres. He’s known for a lot of things, including founding the Weather Underground, a Communist revolutionary group that bombed the Pentagon and the United States Capitol during the Vietnam War. He happened to kill a couple of people along the way, but that’s neither here nor there. He’s a reputable citizen nowadays, a professor in the College of Education at the University of Illinois, and an adviser on education to Mayor Daley.”
Reputable or not, I could still use him to tar Obama.
“Sitting to Bill’s right is his wife, Bernardine Dohrn. If you think Bill Ayres was a hothead, then you haven’t Googled Bernardine. Back in the good old days, she made some choice comments about the murders by the Charles Manson gang of pregnant actress Sharon Tate and her rich friends. As I recall, Bernardine said, ‘Dig it! First they killed those pigs and then they put a fork in pig Tate’s belly. Wild! Offing those rich pigs with their own forks and knives, and then eating a meal in the same room, far out! The Weathermen dig Charles Manson!’”
The Reverend Wright was a regular goldmine. Or should I say arsenal, because he was handing me weapons that I would employ without a shred of mercy.
“Brothers and sisters,” the Reverend Wright continued, “last Tuesday’s victory was just step one of our master plan. And it was the easiest step. There can be no rest. The next step begins tomorrow morning in D.C. We are going to make Barack Obama president of the United States in 2008. And that’s why we’re here tonight.
“Right on, bro,” someone shouted.
“You tell it the way it is, Rev.”
“You each have a copy of the campaign plan in front of you,” Wright continued. “Please let’s go to section one.”
Everyone opened the thick, three-ring binder.
“First,” the Reverend Wright said, “we have to introduce our candidate for 2008 to America. And do it in a way that doesn’t make them afraid.”
He pressed a button on the console in front of him. An image appeared on the overhead video screen.
“Honest Abe Lincoln. From Illinois. Tall. Thin. A lawyer. Almost no prior elected experience. A great orator.”
T
he Reverend looked around the table, and then resumed. “We are going to convince America that this man Obama is the reincarnation of Abe Lincoln. And if we say it enough, they’ll believe it.”
Heads nodded around the table.
“Now, let’s address the key issue: money. With it, we can go all the way. Without it, we will be chasing our tails for four years.” He glanced my way, and I instinctively placed my hand over my watch.
A young black man with a shaved head raised his hand and waited to be called on.
“Yes, Van,” the Reverend said. “People, this is Van Jones. He’s the guy who pointed out—correctly, I might add—that the Bush administration allowed the September 11 attacks to occur as a pretext for war in the Middle East. Van’s got something to report to us.”
“I’m just back from overseas,” Van Jones said. “I’ve been assured that we have large sources of funding from China, Russia, and Indonesia. In addition, Iran and the Arab Emirates are eager to come onboard the campaign.”
“Really?” the Reverend asked. “I thought foreigners were prohibited by law from donating to American political campaigns.”
“Well, Reverend,” Van Jones said, “I spoke to an aide to George Soros about that and …”
The Reverend Wright interrupted: “If Mr. Soros’ aide says it’s okay, then that’s good enough for me. Let’s move on.”
He pressed another button on his console and the words MEDIA RELATIONS appeared on the overhead video screens. “Where are we on this?” Wright asked.
David Axelrod, who was Obama’s chief political strategist, stood up.
“We have loyalists in just about every newsroom in the country,” he said. “We have firm commitments from the editors at the New York Times and the Washington Post that they are on Barack’s team. CNN and MSNBC are like dogs in heat calling me every day asking, ‘When is Barack going to announce? We want to help.’ Katie Couric is all over me urging Barack to run—even though she says in public that she still loves Hillary! But Katie’s for Barack all the way. In fact, she told me that she’d like to go out on a date with Barack—if he were only younger.”
A mischievous look came over the Reverend Wright’s face. He pointed across the table at Vangie Roll.
“This attractive single woman is Vangie Roll, a lawyer in our neighborhood,” he said. “Her mom’s a member of CLIT—the Chicago Low Income Trust. And Vangie’s a friend of Trinity United. Vangie, let me ask you a question. When a new gentleman suitor comes chasing after you, under which scenario does he get more heated up: when you hint you might be receptive to his advances, or when you slam the door in his face and say, ‘No way. I’m not interested. Period’?”
“I’m really the wrong person to ask,” Vangie said, stealing a glance at me. “When it comes to one particular man, I don’t know how to play hard to get.”
“But you get my point!” the Reverend said. “We have Barack play hard to get for the next few months. Slam the door on running for president in 2008. And the result will be everyone will want him even more!”
“That’s very interesting,” Vangie said, looking at me straight in the face. “Maybe it’s time for me to change my game plan, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
When the meeting finally broke up, the Reverend Wright slipped Vangie Roll a note asking her to stay behind. He waited until all the others had left the room, and then went over to where Vangie was sitting next to me. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders, and began giving her what could only be described as an erotic back rub. He seemed pretty old to be sexing up a girl like that, but what did I know?
“How ‘bout you and me, we go for a drink at Bee’s?” he said in a singsong, seductive rhyme.
Vangie looked over at me.
“Hell,” the Reverend said, removing his hands from Vangie’s back, “if it’d make you feel more comfortable, we can take Alfie along with us. Show him how brothers and sistas lax out at a jazz joint.”
I suddenly was feeling very possessive, although I don’t know why. “Sounds good to me,” I said.
“Okay,” Vangie said, “let’s do it.”
The Reverend shed his dashiki and replaced it with a navy blue merino ribbed cashmere turtleneck sweater. Over this, he hung a thick gold chain necklace that matched his oversized gold pinkie ring.
“Follow me,” he said, leading us through a side door.
Outside, waiting for us at the curb, was the largest limousine I had ever seen in my life. It was long and black and squarish, and looked more like a railroad freight car than a limousine.
“This beauty’s called the Ghost Rider,” the Reverend Wright said with undisguised pride. “She’s got a 1,800-watt Sony surround-sound system, a large-screen TV, a full bar, a bathroom, and even a queen-sized bed.” He chuckled lewdly. “That bed’s seen lots of action, Jackson.”
“Impressive,” Vangie said, not sounding the least bit tempted.
“When you get in and take a ride, you’ll think you’ve gone to heaven and died,” the Reverend said, reverting to rhyme.
He looked up and down the street. “But first, we gotta find my wife,” he added impatiently.
A chauffeur in full livery—gray cap with matching gray suit and gloves—hopped out of the limousine.
“Good evenin’, Rev.”
“Malcolm,” Wright said, “where the hell’s Randa?”
“Don’t know, Rev,” Malcolm replied. “Told her what time you said to be here. Told her to be on time this time.”
“Did you try her on her cell phone?”
“Yes, Rev, but you know the missus—she never answers that tiny little phone. Even after you changed the ring to Jelly Roll’s ‘Black Bottom Stomp.’ “
“Well, we’re goin’ to Bee’s,” Wright told Malcolm. “But first, we gonna drop off Mrs. Wright at the house.” He looked at his watch. “If we can find her. Where’s that woman at?”
Just then an attractive African-American woman in a J. Mendel cinnamon-colored sheared mink coat and carrying a red Hermès Kelly bag came stumbling toward us on four-inch spike heels. She was juggling several large shopping bags—from Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Etro, and Jimmy Choo.
“Here I am…here I am…” she said, out of breath. “Sorry I’m late.”
Malcolm the chauffeur rushed forward and relieved her of the shopping bags.
“I was at the Sackler Gallery with my women’s museum group,” she said. “There was a wonderful exhibit of early prints by Whistler.”
“Folks,” the Reverend said, “this is my aesthetically pleasing, exorbitantly dressed, artistically bent wife, Randa Reed Wright.
We shook hands.
“Randa, this here is Alfie Douglas from CLIT, and this here is Vangie Roll, the new church member I been tellin’ you ‘bout.”
Randa Wright gave Vangie a long, withering look of female mistrust. Then she climbed into the backseat. Vangie sat in the middle and the Reverend on the other side. I sat on one of the jump seats.
As soon as Malcolm maneuvered the huge vehicle into a traffic lane, Vangie made a stab at breaking the ice.
“Tell me,” she said to Randa Reed Wright, “how did you and your husband meet?”
“Like one of those Sabine women,” Randa replied.
“Pardon me,” Vangie said.
“You ever see that painting by Peter Paul Rubens in the National Gallery in London?” Randa said. “The Rape of the Sabines, it’s called. Well, I was a Sabine woman. My first husband, Mister Reed, and I went to Jeremiah at Trinity United for marriage counseling. And instead of being a trustworthy counselor, Jeremiah was hinky. He just snatched me away from Mister Reed. Just like one of those Sabine women!”
“And you loved every minute of it,” the Reverend said. “L-U-V-E-D!”
Randa didn’t bother to answer him, and another period of strained silence descended upon our little group in the limousine. Then, all at once, Randa Reed Wright let out an earsplitting scream. Someone flipped on the overhead li
ght, and I watched as Randa reached down and picked up a small, limp object between her thumb and forefinger.
“What the…” she said.
She was holding a pair of red-fringed, black-laced panties. She read the label out loud. “Guia La Bruna. These go for seven hundred fifty dollars, and they ain’t mine, I can tell you that!”
She turned toward Vangie.
“And they ain’t yours either,” she said. “They’re too small for your ass.”
Then she turned on her husband. “Who you Sabine-ing now?”
I was watching with rapt attention. This was better than reality television. To my amazement, the Reverend Wright didn’t miss a beat.
“Randa, baby,” he said, “I don’t know what y’all talkin’ about. I have no idea where these panties came from. Maybe Malcolm brought a girl back here and did the nasty when I wasn’t lookin’. Maybe… whatever. All I know is I had nothing whatsoever to do with these panties. So help me God.”
“Jeremiah, why do I not believe a word you’re saying?” Randa said, shaking her head. “Why do I think your thick fingers were all over these panties when they were on that anorexic little bitch, Nailah Fonseca? You nailin’ Nailah? Is that what this is”—she shoved the panties into the Reverend Wright’s face and rubbed them in—“is that what this is all about?”
“Now, Randa, be reasonable,” the Reverend said. “Nailah Fonseca is havin’ a difficult time, what with her husband gettin’ two consecutive life sentences and all. She came to me for counseling.”
Just then the limousine drew to a stop and Malcolm opened Randa’s door, effectively putting an end to the marital donny-brook. But as Randa got out of the car, she gave her husband a final steely look.
“One drink down at Bee’s with these folks,” she said, “and then you come straight home, you hear?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Less than a half hour later, we arrived in a dark, deserted area of South Chicago warehouses, a few blocks east of the Dan Ryan Expressway. You could see the illuminated outline of the Chicago Skyway toll bridge against the night sky. In front of the jazz club, a long line of people, both black and white, was waiting to get in—men in fur coats and fedoras, women in tight-fitting, brightly colored dresses, some of them trimmed with velvet fringes.