He saw his ma as often as possible. Whenever the tour had a few days off, he’d take the all-night bus to Buffalo. Mary Mabel offered to go along to say a special prayer for her or to lay on hands. It’s the only time she saw him really mad.
“Save it for the customers,” he said. “Ma’s sick. She’s not going to get better.”
“I don’t offer guarantees. But what would be the harm?”
“The hope! The hope would be the harm. If you laid on hands and nothing happened, she’d blame herself.”
“Why?”
“Wake up! If God answers prayers for some, why not others? Do they sin? Lack faith? Don’t you feel responsible when prayers fail? Or when people throw away their pill bottles and suffer a relapse?”
“I’m not the one making claims in your newspaper,” Mary Mabel said quietly.
He looked away. “It’s not your fault. You’re just doing your job. People can believe what they want to. As for Ma, I shouldn’t worry. She’s not one for malarkey.”
Neither am I, Mary Mabel thought. But he was hurting so bad, she let it pass.
At first, the other press syndicates had economized by using stringers, but as Doyle’s tales boosted Hearst’s circulation, they assigned full-time reporters of their own. This meant Doyle had to rent his own car again, since Floyd couldn’t afford to play favourites. He also informed Mary Mabel she’d best stop giving him special attention at host functions.
Nonetheless, the pair still managed to find private time. Mary Mabel insisted on having Floyd take her to their venues in the late afternoon. Doyle would arrive separately, parking his car some blocks from the hall. They’d hole up in the makeshift dressing rooms, munching treats and swapping tales, the door left open in the interests of public decency. If other reporters had discovered the arrangement, they had an alibi; they were doing an interview and would be happy to have the others join them. Fortunately, they were left to themselves. Doyle’s rivals considered the tour a dog-and-pony show; luncheons aside, they drank till dawn and slept till curtain time.
On the day of their Peoria engagement, Mary Mabel had more on her mind than Doyle’s addiction to sweets. Ever since they’d gone on the road, she’d felt uneasy. She’d put it down to nerves, bad dreams, and doubts about her partners. Still, her fear hadn’t gone away, and now she’d placed it. She waited till Doyle had gobbled the last of his donut and slurped his coffee.
“K.O.,” she said slowly, “I think I’m being watched.”
“No kidding.” He licked icing sugar from the down on his upper lip. “You’ve got a full house each night.”
“I’m serious. Someone’s following me.”
Doyle paused. “Following you?”
“Yes. I feel like an animal being tracked.”
He closed the dressing room door, pulled his chair beside her and leaned in. “Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”
“I’ve had the creeps since Kalamazoo. There are these eyes. They’re everywhere. When I leave the hotel. Before and after the show. Sometimes I even feel them when I’m alone backstage or at night in my room.”
“Do these eyes have a face?”
“No. To tell you the truth, I’ve never actually seen them. But they’re there. Around the corner. Outside my window. Everywhere. It’s a sixth sense.”
He held her hand. “Tell Cruickshank to give you some time off.”
“This isn’t nerves,” she said, pulling away. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a hunch.”
“Okay,” he allowed. “Sometimes I’ve spooked myself.”
“And sometimes you’ve been right.”
“So call the cops.”
“With no proof?”
“Get Cruickshank to hire security.”
“He’d say it would bring bad publicity.”
At the mention of his name, Floyd waltzed in. “I suppose a breeze must have blown the door shut.” He stared coldly at Doyle. “It’s time for Sister to get ready.”
“Sure thing.” As he rose to leave, Doyle whispered in her ear, “I’ll keep an eye out.”
Scandal
William Randolph Hearst was immersed in clarity: the lake of spring water that filled the Neptune Pool at his castle at San Simeon. Soon guests would be arriving from Hollywood for a weekend of horseback riding. Early birds Erroll Flynn, Dick Powell, and Charlie Chaplin had already unpacked and hit the tennis courts. Marion was playing hostess. He’d join them, but for the moment preferred his solitude, swimming brisk lengths over the green mosaics that lined the basin floor, past the marble statues of Venus, mermaids and cherubs that graced the deck, and between the Roman colonnades that bracketed this piece of heaven.
It was a great day to be alive. At his age, every day was. Not that he wasn’t at the top of his game. He’d been the first to puff Mary Mabel McTavish. He’d had the smarts to scout K.O. Doyle, too. Between the girl’s story and the kid’s rat-a-tat-tatty prose, the public couldn’t get enough. Neither could he. As the miracles multiplied like the loaves and fishes, his brain had been on fire. Mary Mabel’s life was the stuff of biopics. A natural for his Cosmopolitan Pictures. A vehicle for his sweetie. Marion was a bit old for the part, but so what? Better too old than too young. The idea of Shirley Temple raising the dead gave him gas.
“W.R.?” His secretary, Joe Willicombe, stood at the water’s edge.
Hearst swam over. “Wipe that frown off your face, Willicombe. It’s a glorious day to be alive.”
“Oh yeah?” Willicombe handed him a teletype.
Bobby Green, Bertie Green, and their friend Sammy Potter were kids with a dream. They wanted to be famous bank robbers. Stars of movie serials and comic books. They called themselves the Green Gang. Sammy’d wanted it to be the Potter Gang, but he got outvoted.
At ten, Bobby was the oldest and strongest, which is how he got to be leader. His first order of business was assigning the gang’s handles. He called himself “Pretty Boy” on account of three girls had tried to kiss him. He called his brother “Scarface” on account of the cat scratch on his chin. And he called Sammy “Baby Face.” Sammy complained that he wasn’t a baby face, he was eight. Bobby said tough luck, he was the boss and if Sammy didn’t like it he’d beat him up.
The Green Gang spent Saturday mornings in the alley behind the pool hall smoking their fathers’ old cigarette butts. Between hacking fits, they argued about how to start their life of crime. The quarrel was usually about whether to rob the bank on the corner or one across town. If they robbed the bank on the corner, Miss Wilson the teller might recognize them and call their mothers. On the other hand, a bank across town meant making their getaway on bicycles.
One day Bobby arrived with sandpaper he’d swiped from his dad’s toolbox. He said no matter which bank they robbed they should rub off their fingerprints. By lunchtime, they still had fingerprints, but they hurt like hell. Bobby said it didn’t matter, this was their gangland initiation, and if they touched fingertips they’d be blood brothers. Bertie said that was stupid, they were already brothers except for Sammy. Sammy said who cared, he didn’t want to be brothers with a couple of goofballs, anyway. The gang broke up for three days.
When they got back together again, Bobby said that rather than knocking off banks, maybe they should start small and work up. Sammy volunteered how he’d heard the cashier at the local Piggly Wiggly was epileptic. Maybe they could wait out front till he had a fit, and rob the place while he was flopping around. Bertie said they could be waiting forever; instead, maybe one of them could pretend to have a seizure and the other two could rob the place while the cashier was checking out the disturbance. It seemed like a pretty good plan. They took turns seeing who could do the best fit. Sammy won on account of he could spit, flail, and go cross-eyed at the
same time.
Full of beans, they headed off to the Piggly Wiggly, but by the time they arrived Sammy had cold feet. Bobby was exasperated. All you have to do is fall down and start twitching, he said. Sammy wanted to know what i
f the cashier thought he was making fun of him and went wacko? Or what if the cashier thought he was for real and took him to the hospital? Or what if while he was jerking around he accidentally knocked over a wall of cans and they fell on his head and turned him simple?
Bobby said if the cashier went wacko he’d be so distracted they could steal the money for sure; that if Sammy tried to weasel out, he’d send him to the hospital; and that as for cans falling on his head, Sammy was already simple.
Sammy looked to Bertie for support. Bertie kicked a few stones; maybe Sammy was right, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
Bobby blew up. How were they ever supposed to become famous bank robbers if they couldn’t even steal a few bucks from a stupid Piggly Wiggly?
At that moment fate intervened. A blind hobo with a white cane and a knapsack tapped his way down the street. He set up shop near the store’s entrance, arranging himself in a pitiful heap. The boys watched as occasional customers and passersby dropped spare change in the tin cup in front of him. Gosh, there was probably more money in that cup than in the Piggly Wiggly cash register.
A new plan was born. Sammy would go up to the blind man and pretend to be a good Samaritan. While they were talking, Bobby would steal the tramp’s knapsack and Bertie would steal his cup. The boys tiptoed over. Bobby and Bertie got in position while Sammy cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir. My Sunday school class is having a ‘Good Deeds Week.’ Can I do anything to help you?”
“Yeah,” said the blind man. “You can bugger off.”
“Nice talk,” said Bobby. He dove for the knapsack. Bertie went for the tin cup.
“Jesus Christ!” the blind man swore. He swung his cane. The hook caught Bobby round the neck. The blind man yanked. Bobby sailed backwards and cracked his head on the pavement. On the backswing, Bertie got whacked on the forehead. The brothers were out cold.
Sammy ran screaming into the Piggly Wiggly, the hobo in hot pursuit. “Goddamn little fuckers!” the hobo hollered as he chased Sammy around the aisles pitching cans at his head.
The cashier got in the way. “This store is for customers only.”
“Screw your granny!” the beggar roared, and shoved a jar of pickles through his teeth.
The cashier staggered backwards. He grabbed the gun from under the till. “Hands up!” The stress was too much. Bright lights flashed before his eyes. A white pain seared his brain. He lurched forward in full epileptic seizure, his finger jerking spastically on the trigger. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bullets ricocheted everywhere as he thrashed about the store. Bang! Bang! Bang! Racks toppled like dominoes. Produce sailed through the air. Bottles exploded like grenades.
Within minutes, three cop cars, an ambulance, and a cab of reporters were on the scene. It didn’t look good. The windows of the Piggly Wiggly were blasted out. Two boys lay splayed and bloodied on the curb. The cashier, clutching a smoking gun, sprawled in the doorway drooling teeth. The brigade prepared for the worst. Then, through a haze of flour and cornstarch, came a little boy’s voice: “Over here!”
In the far corner, Sammy Potter stood in triumph on the Coca-Cola cooler. When the bullets started to fly, the beggar had hopped inside for cover. The latch snapped shut. He was trapped.
The picture in the newspaper showed Sammy held aloft by the Green brothers in front of the grocery store. The caption read: “Potter Patriots to the Rescue.” The accompanying article told how the young heroes had thwarted Wallace “Wally” Jones, a.k.a. “Whacker” Jones, a.k.a. “Wally the Cane,” a desperado who’d tried to knock over the local Piggly Wiggly disguised as a blind man. The mayor announced that the boys would get medals for bravery. Meanwhile, “Whacker” Jones was in the clink, charged with robbery, aggravated assault, attempted murder, and loitering.
That should have been the end of it. But when the cops told Whacker he could make one phone call, he didn’t ask to speak to a lawyer. He asked to speak to Brother Floyd Cruickshank of Holy Redemption Ministries.
Hearst closed his eyes. According to Doyle’s teletype, Cruickshank was reached at the Biggs Hotel and Grill in Tulsa. Whacker Jones demanded money to pay for a big-time lawyer. Cruickshank denied knowing him and hung up.
“I’ve just spoken to Doyle,” said Willicombe. “There’s more.”
Hearst held up his hand. “Let me guess. Whacker Jones feels betrayed. He’s accused the ministry of interstate fraud, conspiracy, and racketeering. Claims he was hired as a plant. He wants to cut a deal with prosecutors. If the Piggly Wiggly charges are dropped, he’ll sing.”
Willicombe nodded. “Doyle says reporters from the competition cornered Cruickshank in a booth at the hotel grill. He repeated the line about Whacker being a stranger.”
“At which point,” said Hearst, “I presume they pulled out a picture of the two of them together.”
“On stage. In Flint. With Sister Mary Mabel.”
“Life is so predictable.”
Willicombe smiled grimly. “Suddenly Cruickshank’s memory improves. He remembers Whacker; he could have sworn he was legit. To hear him tell it, he’s been duped by a two-bit extortionist. He and Miss McTavish are victims.”
“The boys don’t buy it.”
“Natch. So he plays double or nothing. ‘It’s his word against ours,” he says. ‘Print a word and I’ll sue.’ Then he makes a run for it.”
Hearst slapped the water in fury. “We’ve invested a lot in this story!” He soothed his hands on the cool mosaics. “How does Doyle think it’ll play?”
“On the one hand, he says Cruickshank’s right. There’s no proof of ministry wrongdoing. If folks read that the girl’s been conned by a murderous tramp, she might even get sympathy.”
Hearst watched a sparrow wash its feathers in the lap of a marble cherub. “On the other hand?”
“He thinks the threat to sue was a mistake. The boys are buzzing like flies on a dog turd. By tomorrow, they’ll be running other claims of fraud, real or bought. Then watch out. When shit hits the fan, everyone stinks.”
“Exactly.” Hearst knew the game better than anyone. News is something that somebody doesn’t want printed; everything else is advertising.
He kicked off and swam a savage backstroke. Plants are a dime a dozen, but why had Cruickshank sunk to the likes of Whacker Jones? Surely he could have found a law-abiding widow who’d toss her cane for a bottle of pain killers and a month’s rent. Besides, Miss McTavish didn’t need plants. Adrenaline propels the lame two steps. Hysteria provides shadows to the blind. And a holy rap to the head can make the deaf hear bells.
Damn Cruickshank. His link to Whacker had popped the soufflé. If the public loves a saint, it loves a scandal even more. Each day, there’d be fresh dirt. Rumours. Allegations. Innuendo. The girl would be buried alive.
Worst of all, Hearst had lost control of the story. So far he’d had the inside track, negotiating its curves and straightaways like a demon. Now he was trapped in a demolition derby: Mary Mabel was roadkill; Marion’s vehicle was a write-off; and he was in a pileup, rammed on all sides, while the competition streaked by, threatening to hijack advertisers en route.
Hearst was so angry, he lost track of his backstroke and conked his head on the end of the pool. When he came to, he was flat on the deck, a doctor checking him for concussion. Hearst shoved the doctor aside. “Willicombe,” he announced, “I’ve had a vision.”
Willicombe observed the mad dilations of his pupils. “W.R., are you okay?”
“Okay?” Hearst laughed. “I’m back in the driver’s seat. Rent me Radio City Music Hall. On the double. And don’t forget to book the Rockettes.”
Next morning, the following editorial appeared on the front page of Hearst newspapers across the country.
SISTER MARY MABLE: SAINT OR SINNER???
THE HEARST PRESS DEMANDS THE TRUTH
An editorial by publisher
Mr. W.R. Hearst
We Americans are a God-fearing people. It is therefore natural that we pay heed when we hear r
eports of Divine providence.
As publisher of the Hearst chain of family newspapers, I take it as my highest obligation to keep the public informed. Consequently, I have spared no expense to bring you, my readers, the most up-to-the-minute news on the alleged healings of Sister Mary Mabel McTavish.
Miss McTavish has convinced many that she is a conduit for miracles. Others allege that she is party to chicanery, greed, and corruption.
If she is a healer, she well deserves the accolades she has received. However, if she is a charlatan, she is the most despicable of wretches; for she will have betrayed the faith on which our great nation was built, in the process abetting the insidious forces of godlessness and Communism.
In light of the current controversy, this newspaper has rented Radio City Music Hall for Saturday evening, two weeks from today, at 8:00 p.m. At that time, we demand that Sister Mary Mabel McTavish submit to an onstage lie detector test. Saint or Sinner, Miss McTavish: which are you? America deserves the truth.
Signed,
Publisher Mr. W.R. Hearst.
Editor’s note: The previously scheduled performance by Mr. Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy has been cancelled. Tickets will be refunded or may be exchanged at the Radio City Music Hall box office, courtesy of the Hearst Press. Mr. W.R. Hearst wishes to apologize for any inconvenience, and to extend his thanks to Mr. Bergen for his co-operation in this matter of national interest.
On the Rails
General Secretary Comrade Seamus Duddy, founder and guiding light of the Independent Collective Proletarian Brotherhood of the International Industrial Bolshevik Workers Alliance of the United States of America (I.C.P.B.I.I.B.W.A.U.S.A.), had concluded a rousing call to arms to his troops and retired to the roof of their boxcar to cry. In five years, despite a nonstop recruitment campaign, the I.C.P.B.I.I.B.W.A.U.S.A. had never had more than six members. No sooner were new comrades educated in the finer points of dialectical materialism, than they’d get arrested, miss the train, or form a splinter group.
The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish Page 19