The Hosanna Shout

by R. R. Irvine

  “What the hell does that mean?” Traveler said.

  Tanner hung up without answering.

  3

  AS SOON as they cleared the temple gate, Traveler and Martin paused on the sidewalk to stare at the Chester Building across the street. The last of the police cars was just pulling away from the curb. Visitors were again lining up for tours of the temple grounds. Traffic was back to normal for a Wednesday morning. The warm October air smelled of sycamore and Kennecott.

  Traveler said, “Willis was with us when Bill and Charlie first started talking about counting coup.”

  “I saw the three of them huddling together yesterday in the lobby.”

  “Why would he do that on the eve of his honeymoon?”

  Martin shook his head. “Willis always had the knack of getting you into trouble while escaping the consequences for himself.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “People don’t change.”

  “These days Willis doesn’t make a move without approval from the prophet.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Martin said.

  “We’re both sounding crazy. Willis wouldn’t encourage Bill to count coup against someone like the White Prophet.”

  “Your mother used to threaten us both with the White Prophet, if you remember. Usually she’d been nipping at her homemade elderberry wine, which she considered exempt from the Word of Wisdom.”

  “Kary was a great believer when it suited her.”

  “She claimed to know the White Prophet personally,” Martin said. “Your mother had more friends than anyone I ever knew. Of course, she changed them once a month.”

  “Did you ever meet Ellsworth?”

  “Through your mother, you mean?” Martin shrugged. “That was a long time ago. You were a baby.”

  “I’ve never heard that Ellsworth was special among the apostles. He looked harmless enough to me.”

  “You saw him?”

  “We talked for a moment. I did my best to persuade him that Bill didn’t mean any harm.”

  “And?”

  “He looked me in the eye and spouted scripture.”

  Martin sighed. “ ‘Fear not, little children, for you are mine, and I have overcome the world, and you are of them that my Father hath given me.’ You see. There’s enough in the good book for everyone.”

  Traveler wondered if he was missing something. Had Martin finally decided to give him a clue to his biological father?

  You are a child of the prophet came back to him. His mother’s words spoken often enough. Had she meant it literally?

  “Are you trying to tell me something about my father?” Traveler asked.

  “I raised you. What else is there to know?”

  Your father is an important man, Kary had said. A man with a future. Not a private detective with an office in the Chester Building, but one of God’s anointed. The blood of the apostles runs through your veins.

  “I was remembering what Kary used to say,” Traveler said. “Ellsworth is my height.”

  “Women do that, mothers in particular. They plant things in our heads that keep on growing and sprouting for the rest of our lives.”

  “Then we’d better find out who’s raising Moroni Traveler the Third.”

  “He’s waited two years. He can wait until we check on Bill and Charlie.”

  “Don’t forget Willis’s remark about the Chester Building.” Traveler pointed across the street to where Barney Chester was waving frantically at them.

  As soon as they reached him, Chester removed the usual unlit cigar from between his teeth, made a show of looking both ways up and down the sidewalk, and said, “The church is after me.”

  Gone was the tough-guy sneer he’d been cultivating ever since someone said he looked like Edward G. Robinson. “They’re going to take away my namesake.”

  “Good old Willis,” Martin said.

  “They’re inside right now,” Chester said.

  Martin sighed. “I’ve heard enough about church conspiracies, Danites, and the White Prophet already this morning.”

  Chester grabbed Martin’s arm. “I’ll show you if you don’t believe me.”

  He led the way through the bronze revolving door, across the lobby’s marble floor, to where his cigar stand was sandwiched between two massive Doric columns. There, a man in a gray, well-worn suit was bent over the glass-topped display case, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe the Chiclets, Sen-Sen, and bags of Bull Durham inside.

  Without looking up he said, “You told me you were coming right back.” He blew on the eternal flame, causing it to flicker momentarily. The flame, according to Chester, was a pilot light for those who enjoyed the religious fulfillment of cigar smoking.

  “This is Emmett Yancey,” Chester said. “He’s an appraiser for the city.”

  Yancey, a slender, balding man clutching a clipboard that contained a sheaf of papers an inch thick, turned to peer over the top of his glasses at Traveler. “I don’t care how big you are. Intimidation won’t work. If I don’t do the job, someone else will.”

  Traveler backed off a step.

  “Hold it,” Martin said. “We don’t even know what’s going on.”

  “They’re stealing my building,” Chester said.

  Yancey adjusted his glasses. “I told you before. I’m here to make certain that you receive fair compensation.”

  “Who wants the building?” Traveler said. “The church or the city?”

  “The church,” Chester said.

  “I work for the city,” Yancey said. “The church can’t exercise eminent domain.”

  “I’ve got it on good authority,” Chester said.

  Yancey waved his clipboard. “I’ve shown you the paperwork. Now, are you going to accompany me or not?”

  Chester sagged, shoulders, chin, and stomach; even his cigar drooped from between his teeth.

  “You’d better do what he says,” Martin said.

  Immediately, Yancey headed for the revolving door, stopping just short of it. “Look at that damned thing. It’s brass, it’s heavy, it’s out of date and probably not even worth salvaging.” He pushed the door experimentally, consulted his clipboard, and made a checkmark with his pencil. “People can get stuck in these things, you know, maybe even break an arm or a leg. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. This whole place is, if you ask me.”

  “My building is genuine art deco,” Chester said.

  Shaking his head, Yancey toured the lobby. “Look at those gilt cornices and that grillwork over the heating vents. They haven’t made that kind of thing for years. Maybe if we’re lucky, it can be melted down for scrap. If not, we’ll have to deduct it from the price.”

  “Those are collector’s items,” Martin said.

  “You’re welcome to make a bid on them,” Yancey said. “As for your marble floors, Mr. Chester, they’re not only a hazard when wet, but far less practical than industrial carpet.”

  “Dammit. That’s Italian Carrara.”

  “A lot of people think they can stick the city and get rich. That’s why I’m here. I’m paid to protect the taxpayers’ money.”

  Traveler said, “Mr. Chester has rights too.”

  “He can always resort to the courts. If you ask me, though, we’ll be doing him a favor by taking this place off his hands and bulldozing it.”

  Chester ground his cigar into an ornate, standing brass ashtray. “They served me papers first thing this morning, Mo. I hadn’t heard a peep before that. The church wants to build a parking lot for the temple. Nephi Bates told me so not ten minutes ago.”

  Martin squinted at the appraiser. “Is that right, Mr. Yancey?”

  “I work for the city. They tell me what to do, I do it.”

  “What do they want the land for?”

  “You’d have to ask the powers that be.”

  “In this state, that’s the church.”

  Yancey shrugged and headed for the men’s room.

  “We’l
l wait for you out here,” Traveler said.

  “You’re welcome to come if you want. It’s part of the inspection.”

  When the door closed behind him, Traveler turned to Chester. “You’ve been saying for years that Nephi Bates was nothing but a church spy, so why are you listening to what he has to say now?”

  “He makes sense, Mo. The city builds a parking structure and then leases it back to the church. That’s what Nephi thinks, anyway.”

  “How would he know something like that?”

  “Half an hour before the paperwork arrived, Nephi was standing in front of the cigar counter asking me if I was going to pay him a pension when the building’s gone.”

  “Not even Willis Tanner would hire Bates for a spy,” Martin said.

  “If a man keeps his ears open, he can hear a lot running an elevator.”

  Before Traveler could respond, Yancey came out of the men’s room and continued his inspection of the lobby, making constant checkmarks on his clipboard. Finally, he stopped directly in front of the cigar stand and craned his neck to stare up at the massive mural that ran across the lobby’s ceiling.

  Chester retrieved a fresh cigar from the countertop, thrust it into the eternal flame, then fired smoke in Yancey’s direction. Usually he asked strangers for permission to smoke, since tobacco was like brimstone to Mormons.

  “That’s old-fashioned, out of date, and faded.” Yancey’s face was pinched, whether from smoke or art criticism it was impossible to tell. “It makes the whole place as dark as a grotto. Give me whitewashed concrete any day.”

  “That’s Brigham Young leading his pioneers to the promised land,” Chester said.

  “If you say so.”

  “It needs a little cleaning, that’s all.” Chester waved away his cigar smoke. “I’ve been meaning to get after it for years.”

  “This place smells like a train station,” Yancey said.

  Behind Yancey’s back, Martin signaled Chester to get rid of the cigar. Chester made a face but did it, dousing it carefully so it could be relit later.

  “It’s a crime to let an eyesore like this continue to stand across the street from our temple,” Yancey went on. “It’s . . .” He stared up at the ceiling again as if seeking inspiration. “. . . disrespectful.”

  “Not so fast,” Martin said. “That’s a WPA mural up there, painted by Thomas Hart Benton. Isn’t that right, Barney?”

  “Absolutely. The man who built this place, old Gussie Gustavson, stood here and watched Tom Benton at work. He told me so himself.”

  Traveler leaned against the counter and looked up at the ceiling, seeking signs of Thomas Hart Benton, but knowing Barney had no proof as to who painted it, only word of mouth, Gussie Gustavson’s word at that, which didn’t stop the mural from being impressive despite a yellow patina caused by generations of cigar smoke. A line of wagons, prairie schooners, rolled across the ceiling, their sails caught in a wind that blew them westward. Men, women, and children walked beside their wagons; some carried infants, others led livestock, while Brigham Young rode on horseback at the head of the caravan. Behind him, snow-covered mountains and gigantic cumulus clouds served as a dramatic backdrop to the pioneer trek. The painter had made everyone and everything look bigger than life, though not big enough, Traveler thought, to convey the achievement itself, the Mormon migration that had crossed the Great Plains and the Rockies, fleeing murderous enemies, to reach their haven in Salt Lake City.

  “Benton is a national treasure,” Martin said.

  Yancey squinted at Martin. “When was it painted?”

  “The thirties, during the Great Depression.”

  “The painter’s probably dead, then, and in no position to object—or sue, either, for that matter.” Yancey made a notation on his clipboard. “I think I’ll take a look at the second and third floors now.”

  “You don’t need me with you, then,” Chester said. “Besides, there’s nothing up there to steal.”

  “Your elevator operator can accompany me.”

  “You must know Nephi Bates already, since he’s a great one for the church too.”

  For a moment Yancey stood there, unmoving, then he shook his head once, slowly, and walked into the elevator whose brass grillwork matched the rest of the Chester Building’s art deco styling.

  Nephi Bates, whose earphones were around his neck, greeted the appraiser with a wary nod and then turned up the volume on the cassette player hooked to his belt. Immediately, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s “Bringing in the Sheaves” began spilling out, the verses trailing off as the elevator rose out of sight:

  “Sowing in the morning, sowing seeds of kindness,

  Sowing in the noon-tide and the dewy eves;

  Waiting for the harvest, and the time of reaping,

  We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.”

  Chester said, “I haven’t got a chance unless you help me.”

  “You need a lawyer,” Martin said, “not private detectives. What about Reed Critchlow? He’s one of your oldest tenants.”

  “He’s practically retired. Besides, we’re up against the church here.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Traveler said.

  “Let’s say I’m hiring you to find out, then.”

  As soon as Chester turned away to relight his cigar in the eternal flame, Traveler and Martin exchanged knowing looks. They both knew the vacancy rate in the Chester Building was over fifty percent at the moment, so Chester couldn’t afford an extensive investigation; they also knew they’d do their best to help him.

  “Thank God for one thing,” Martin said. “Drag your feet and eminent domain can take years.”

  Chester shook his head. “My hearing is in thirty days.”

  “Now we know what Willis meant on the phone,” Traveler said.

  “What’s he got to do with this?” Chester asked.

  “That boy knew about your building in advance,” Martin said. “He told us not to ask him for help.”

  Chester bit through his cigar. “I’m finished, then. He speaks for the prophet.”

  “Willis didn’t say he was speaking for anyone but himself,” Traveler said.

  Martin shook his head. “His motives are never clear, but that doesn’t change the fact that we may owe him one if his lead on my grandson works out.”

  “Whatever he is,” Traveler said, “he isn’t your grandson.”

  “If we raise him, he’ll be as much your son as you are mine.”

  “Family comes first,” Chester said. “I understand that.”

  Martin laid a hand on Chester’s shoulder. “Mo and I will split up. I’ll work on your problem while he goes to Park City to look for our namesake.”

  “Can I do anything to help?” Barney said.

  “Check on Bill and Charlie. If bail’s needed, Moroni Traveler and Son will chip in.”

  4

  TRAVELER DROVE east into the red-rock mouth of Parley’s Canyon, named for the early Mormon apostle Parley P. Pratt, whose pioneer toll road was now I-80. The interstate wound its way through stands of birch, mountain alder, and big-tooth maples. At Kimball Junction, he turned south on State Highway 224, the route to Park City.

  On Sunday drives when he was a boy, the high mountain meadows around Park City had been filled with chokecherry, quaking aspen, and yellowbelly marmots. Now there were ski runs, golf courses, and condominiums all the way into the heart of the old mining town, where more silver was being extracted from “old-time shopping days” than ever had been taken from its diggings. Main Street, with its weathered frame buildings on the verge of disintegration, had been carefully preserved for the tourists. In one of them, Dr. Giles Wilmot had his office.

  Traveler parked in front of the old city hall, now a museum, and got out. At seven thousand feet, twenty-five hundred feet higher than Salt Lake City, the afternoon air was cold. The surrounding mountains were already tipped with snow; the opening of ski season was only a month away.

&n
bsp; The sign on Wilmot’s door gave office hours as nine to four twice a week, Wednesdays and Thursdays. Traveler checked his watch. He had thirty minutes to spare.

  A cowbell attached to the door clanged loudly when he entered. He had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the pioneer-size door frame. The waiting room was empty except for a white-haired man of about seventy sitting in front of a low table covered with documents. He wore a starched lab coat and white shirt with a carefully knotted black knit tie.

  “You cut it pretty close,” he said, rising to shake hands. “I’m Dr. Wilmot. When Willis Tanner called me, he predicted you’d be here an hour ago.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He asked me to give you a hand.” The man’s tone said he might not have done so otherwise.

  “I understand you’ve found another Moroni Traveler.”

  Wilmot gestured at the papers on the table. “For the past year I’ve been going over every record I could get hold of here in town, marriages, deaths, baptisms, deeds, you name it. I’ve walked the cemetery and recorded every tombstone myself. Do you know why?”

  Traveler knew better than to answer; he merely shook his head as was expected of him.

  “California money is pouring in here, that’s why. It’s erasing our history. Gentile money. It’s worse than the fire of 1898 that nearly wiped us out. Back then we rebuilt the town. Now they’re rebuilding the mountains to make the skiing better. Soon there won’t be anything left of Park City the way it was. Nobody to remember it either. That’s where I come in.”

  Traveler bent over the table hoping to spot some reference to Moroni the Third.

  Wilmot immediately reassembled the papers into a single pile with a face-down page on top. “Did you know that Park City was originally named Upper Kimballs, after the ranch of the same name? Some called it Upper Parleys for the apostle Parley Pratt, who built a toll road up from Salt Lake.”

  Traveler sighed.

  “Of course you didn’t. That’s why I’m collecting everything I can. Every name, every soul has to be accounted for. You must know that, being named for our angel the way you are.”