The sergeant glanced at him. “You oughtta learn to chaw tobacco. Nobody can ever spot you doin’ that.”
The patrolman laughed. “Maybe I will.”
The sergeant was watching the girls. “The crowd’s thinnin’ out now and the girls are beginnin’ to leave. We’ll tag the last one an’ see where they’re goin’.”
The patrolman switched on the motor. “You tell me when, Sergeant.”
“Now,” the sergeant said. “They’re goin’ up the side street near the Orange Julius stand.”
The patrolman pulled around the corner and came to an abrupt stop. “Shit, Sergeant, it’s a one-way street comin’ at us.”
“I know the street,” the sergeant said. “It’s a long one. You round the block. We’ll pick them up on the way down.”
But when they reached the top of the street and looked down it was empty. “They’re gone, Sergeant,” the patrolman said.
“No, they’re not,” the sergeant said. “There’s an alley half-way down the block. They’ll be in there.”
The patrolman stopped the car, blocking the alley. The sergeant was right. At the back of the alley was a purple painted van. In large white letters on all sides of the van were the painted words THE COMMUNITY OF GOD.
“Call in our location,” the sergeant said. “Ask for a backup car but tell them we don’t expect any trouble—we’re just going to check out a couple of Marys.”
The side panel door of the van was open and the girls thronging around it didn’t notice the policemen until they were almost on them. The chatter and laughter suddenly died as they turned to face them.
The sergeant touched his visor politely. “Evening, ladies.” He could see the fear and apprehension on their faces. “There’s no reason to be disturbed,” he added. “This is a routine check. If I may see your ID’s or driver’s licenses, please?”
One of the girls, seeming slightly older than the others, pushed forward. “Why?” she asked, faintly belligerent. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say you were, ma’am. It’s just that you’re new here and we have a responsibility to know what’s going down.”
“We know our rights,” the girl said stubbornly. “We don’t have to show you anything unless we’re charged.”
The sergeant stared at her in disgust. The kids today were all street lawyers. “How about begging in the street without a permit, for starters?” he replied conversationally. “Then creating a public nuisance by interrupting the flow of pedestrian traffic and creating a public hazard that could endanger the lives of others? That was a wharf you were on and people might have fallen off into the water trying to walk around you.”
The girl stared at him silently for a moment then glanced at the others. She turned to the open side panel door and called inside, “Preacher!”
The man appeared from the darkness inside the van and dropped to the ground. He was wearing faded Levi’s tucked into army boots, a khaki work shirt under a worn and slightly frayed GI blouse. He was not a tall man, about five seven or eight, and had long sandy brown hair that fell to his shoulders, held tightly around his head by a wide band of Indian beads. His mouth and chin were covered by a Jesus beard and moustache. At first it seemed as if his eyes were intensely blue and could see into you, but then they seemed to change and grow gray and bland as if a veil had come down over them. His voice was deep, resonant and pleasant as he spoke. “Welcome to the Community of God, Officer. What can we do for you?”
The sergeant looked at him. All he needed on this beat was another Jesus. He saw at least twenty of them a day and most of them were stoned out of their heads. But he’d been a cop for a long time, and nothing of what he thought or felt showed in his voice. “I’ve asked these young ladies for their ID’s or driver’s licenses but they don’t seem to want to cooperate.”
The man nodded thoughtfully then turned to the girls. “It’s all right, children. Do as the officer requests.”
The backup car arrived and two more policemen came running up the alley as the girls began to produce their cards. “Tom,” the sergeant said to his driver, “you gather up the cards, take them back to the car and call them into HQ for a complete check.” He turned back to the man, who was still standing in front of him. “May I have your driver’s license and vehicle registration also?”
“Of course, Officer,” the man said. “They’re inside the van. I’ll be glad to get them for you.” He turned back to the panel door.
“Wait a minute,” the sergeant said quickly. “Do you mind if I go with you?”
“Not at all, Officer,” the man said easily. He leapt into the van.
The sergeant climbed up heavily after him. He was not as spry as he used to be. The inside of the van was like nothing he had expected to see. Usually they were filthy jumbles of mattresses and dirty clothing that smelled of dope, wine and unwashed bodies.
This van was clean, spare and painted white. If anything, it was more like a traveling office than an RV. Behind the driver’s compartment were a small table desk and chair, bolted to the floor so that they would not move. On the wall opposite the panel door were steel shelves from floor to roof covered with packaged reams of paper. On another table, also bolted to the floor, was a typewriter neatly covered, and next to it was a small mimeograph machine with its receiving tray half filled. On the side next to the door were two rows of benches, also bolted to the floor, and each bench was fitted with four sets of seat belts.
The man saw him take it all in. “We can’t all sit up front,” he said. “And some roads are pretty rough. I like to feel that all the children are safe.”
The sergeant grunted and sniffed. He had always said he could smell dope better than any of the dogs they were training. But it seemed almost too good to be true. Everything was just too straight.
The man sat down at the desk and opened a drawer. He took out the vehicle registration slip and his driver’s license and gave them to the sergeant.
The policeman looked at the driver’s license first. It was made out to Constantine Andrew Talbot, issued in January 1967, two years before. He glanced at the picture. It was the same man all right but the look was different now. In the picture he had a straight haircut. The man was older than he had at first thought. He had guessed early twenties; his actual age now was twenty-nine. All else checked: hair color, eyes. Just one thing he could not see. “There’s a scar on your left arm,” he said. “How’d you get it?”
“Bullet wound. I was in Vietnam.”
“My son is in the Green Berets,” the sergeant said proudly.
“I was in medics.”
“How long?”
“Four years. I volunteered.”
“Why medics?” the sergeant asked.
“I don’t believe in killing,” the man answered. “But neither do I believe that a man should shirk his duty to his country.”
“I heard the girl call you ‘Preacher,’” the policeman asked. “Are you an ordained minister?”
“No, sir,” the man said. “But someday I hope to be.”
The sergeant put the driver’s license under the vehicle registration slip. “Is this Community of God a recognized church?”
“Yes, it is. We have a registration certificate from the State of California.”
“Exactly where is this church based?”
“As you can see from the vehicle registration slip, we’re located just outside Los Altos,” Preacher answered. “But, as my mother used to say, ‘The community of God is imbedded in every man’s heart.’”
They had eaten dinner in almost total silence. It was when they were drinking their coffee that he spoke. He looked across the table at his parents. “I’m leaving on the weekend.”
“But it’s only six months since you’ve come home,” his mother said quickly.
“And he hasn’t done a thing except lay around the house, go out all night doin’ God knows what an’ smokin’ that pot he got into while he was in th
e army. Not once did he offer to come down to the store an’ give me a hand,” his father said gruffly. “I don’t know what four years in the army did for him. He’s twenty-five now an’ it’s time he settled down. When I was his age I was already a married man with responsibilities.”
“What is it you want to do, Constantine?” his mother asked.
“I don’t really know, Mother,” he said. “I’ve got a call. But I’m not sure for what. I feel I have a message from God to bring to people. But I don’t know how to do it or even where it belongs. I only know I’ve seen too many men die without having made any provision for their souls and lose the gift of eternal life that Jesus promised.”
His father stared at him. “If that’s what you really think, why haven’t you come down to the church and talked to the minister?”
“I have, Father. Many times. But he doesn’t have the answers for me. To me, God belongs to all Christians, not just Unitarians. It’s a greater community than just this small church.”
“The trouble with you is that you really don’t want to work. You’re happy to get your check from the VA, which includes the bonus for being wounded, and just lay around,” his father said harshly.
“Constantine,” his mother said.
He turned to look at her.
“Is that what you truly believe?”
“Yes, Mother.”
She turned to his father. “Then it’s not up to us to pass judgment on him, Father,” she said. “We must let him go and find what he believes. It could be that he is right, for there is a community of God imbedded in each man’s soul.”
Chapter Three
The patrolman stuck his head inside the door. “They’re all clean, Sergeant. There are no make sheets on any of them.”
The sergeant nodded and handed him Preacher’s license and the registration slip. “Run this one through for me.”
The patrolman disappeared as Preacher spoke. “You don’t trust anyone, do you, Sergeant?”
“It’s my business not to,” the sergeant said. “How long do you people plan on staying around here?”
“Just the weekend. We need some cash to pay for seed and fertilizer at the Community. Things have been more expensive than we figured.”
“What crops are you growing?”
“Alfalfa, sunflower seeds, safflower and snap beans. We try to grow all our own food. We’re vegetarians.”
The sergeant nodded. It figured. “How many of you are there in the Community?”
“About forty-five now,” Preacher answered. “But we’re growing. Each week there’s one or two more.”
“All girls?” the policeman asked shrewdly.
Preacher laughed. “There are about fifteen men among us.”
“I don’t see any with you.”
“We need them at the Community for the heavy work. The girls are the only ones we could spare.”
The sergeant stared at him. Preacher was no fool. He knew that it was easier for girls to collect money than men. The average pedestrian was not afraid of them.
The patrolman came back to the door. “Clean, too,” he said, passing the papers back to the sergeant.
The sergeant had one last question. “You can’t all sleep in the van?”
Again Preacher smiled. “The man who owns the storage room in the alley next to the truck was kind enough to rent us his place for ten dollars a night. The girls sleep there. I stay in the van.”
The sergeant got to his feet heavily. “You’ll still have to get a permit for soliciting.”
Preacher took another paper from the desk. “We already have it, Sergeant. We got it at City Hall yesterday.”
The policeman looked at the paper. Preacher had thought of everything. The permit was good for the three days of the weekend. He gave it grudgingly back. “Okay,” he said. “Just be careful and keep your girls out of trouble and I’ll see to it that the police won’t bother you.”
Preacher got to his feet. There was a faint hint of a smile in his eyes. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said. “God bless you.”
The sergeant was surprised to hear himself reply, almost by reflex, “Thank you, Preacher.”
Preacher stood in the door of the van as he and the girls watched the policemen walk down the alley, get into their cars and drive off. When they were gone, the girls, suddenly smiling, looked up at him. He laughed.
“They sure fell for it,” said the older girl who had first spoken to the police.
Preacher nodded slowly. “Yes. But we still have to be careful. That sergeant is no fool. He’s going to come back for a few surprise visits. You children are going to have to play it very straight until I can make the arrangements and then we’ll get out of here.”
“But I’m dying for a toke,” the girl said.
“You’ll hang in there, Charlie,” Preacher said. “We have fifty bricks in that storage room to get rid of. Once we do, we can get out of here and have a real party.”
“But Preacher,” one of the girls protested.
Preacher turned a stern eye on her. “You heard me, Alice. You’ll all do as I say. We need the money we’re goin’ to get if we want to continue doin’ the Lord’s work.” He jumped down from the van. “Which one of you has the keys to the pickup? I want to go downtown and make contact.”
***
Preacher found an open parking meter at the foot of California Street and pulled into it. He got out of the car and put a coin in the meter, then turned and walked down to Grant. The faint smells of Chinese cooking hung in the air like a perfume inviting you to enter the thousand restaurants that filled Chinatown.
He walked down Grant past the restaurants and souvenir shops until finally, a few blocks down, the street became more prosaic—old apartment houses and small commercial tax-payer buildings. He stopped in front of one of them. The street floor was a storefront with painted-over gray-tinted windows and a sign over the doorway. SOONG DING CO. EXPORTS. WHOLESALE ONLY. The entrance door was locked. He pressed the doorbell.
A moment later the door opened and a man peeked out. “Yes?”
“Barbara Soong,” Preacher said.
“Who wants to see her?”
“Just tell her that Preacher is here.”
The man nodded and closed the door. A few minutes later he was back. This time the door opened wide. “Come in.”
Preacher followed him into the store and waited until the man had closed and locked the door behind them, then followed him through the store filled with crates and boxes to the rear. The man pressed the button for the elevator. The door opened. “Third floor,” the man said, and waited until Preacher went into the elevator and the door closed.
A neatly dressed man in a dark suit, white shirt and black tie greeted Preacher as he stepped out into the luxuriously furnished third-floor apartment. “Follow me, please,” he said politely.
Preacher followed him down a wide corridor decorated with lovely Chinese silk-screen prints and statues of invaluable jade and ivory to an elaborately carved wooden door. He opened the door, gesturing for Preacher to enter.
He followed Preacher into the room and closed the door behind him. He turned to Preacher. “If you will permit me?” he asked politely. “The House of Soong has many enemies.”
“Of course,” Preacher answered. He raised his arms so that the man could pat him down.
A moment later, the man straightened up, satisfied. “Thank you.” He walked to the desk and pressed a button. A door at the other side of the room opened and a young woman entered.
She was tall for a Chinese and was smiling, both hands held out in front of her in a gesture of welcome. “Preacher,” she said warmly, “it’s been a long time. I thought you had forgotten us.”
“Barbara,” he said, taking both her hands in his own, “one does not forget good friends.” He let go of her hands and his voice grew serious. “I just learned of the death of your honorable father. Permit me to extend my condolences even though it is late.”
/> Barbara walked behind the desk that had been her father’s and sat down. “Thank you, Preacher. It is sad. But it is also life. It must go on even if it is difficult.” She paused for a moment. “How can the House of Soong be of service to you?”
He remained standing. It would not have been polite for him to sit until he was asked. “You are aware of the arrangement I had with your father?”
She nodded.
“I have fifty bricks,” he said.
She looked up at him. “You have come at a difficult time,” she said. “There is a glut in the market. It seems that every dealer on the street has more than he can get rid of.”
“I can understand that,” he said. “I’ve checked out a few samples. It’s garbage they’re selling. There’s no reason for anyone to want to buy it.”
“Still it’s there,” she said.
“Agreed,” he nodded. He smiled. “Then I won’t trouble you. I have kept my word to the House of Soong and come here first. I have some contacts in Los Angeles who I am sure will take it off my hands.”
“I didn’t say we weren’t interested, Preacher,” she said quickly. “I merely said there was a glut in the market.”
“There is never enough of top-quality merchandise,” Preacher said. “And I have the best. It’s our own crop and we’ve chemically checked it out. The THC content is forty percent above average.”
“What do you want for it?” she asked.
“Five hundred dollars a brick, less your twenty percent commission, of course.”
“Too expensive for this market,” she said. “The going street price is three-fifty tops.”
“I’ll have to take it to Los Angeles then,” he said. “They have more money to spend for the little luxuries of life down there. Besides I need the money to keep the Community going for another year.”
“There may be a way to work it out,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk it out over a cup of tea?”
***
The patrol car inched its way through the nighttime North Beach traffic. “Sergeant,” Tom said. “Up there ahead. Look.”
The sergeant followed the patrolman’s gesture. The purple van was parked on the corner, the rear doors open wide; a black curtain with a white cross painted on it hung down blocking the view into the truck. Extending from the door was a small wooden platform from which Preacher was speaking into a hand-held microphone.
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