The one consistent thing Cole kept hearing as he asked around town about the zoning, real estate, and the poorer side of town was reference to “the old preacher out there”. Like the guy said, “When you ain’t got nothin’ you got nothin’ to lose.” Cole was pretty sure he knew where to find the preacher people kept referring to. Hopefully, he knew something that would shed some light on Malcor.
The gravel’s crunch under the tires made a throaty sound as Cole pulled into the parking lot of the Friendly Tabernacle. Except for the splotches of graffiti paint-over, it looked just like he remembered. A remnant of World War II, the jumbo Quonset hut was a strange corrugated metal building—a perfect half dome with a flat front and back, like someone cut a tin can in half long ways and stuck it in the ground. The sign in the front sputtered and crackled its neon message, JESUS SAVES. A worn, faded canvas banner proclaimed REVIVAL NIGHTLY.
At one time, this odd little building was the neighborhood movie theater, home to several thousand Dust Bowl refugees. The Del Rio showed cowboy serials, pre-War “B” romances, and Buck Rogers-style science fiction. That was before the city passed an ordinance declaring the little gravel parking lot too small for the 200-seat tin movie palace. The fact that most people walked to the Del Rio was of little consequence to the city fathers, who didn’t like the looks of the “Okie firetrap” anyway.
Then Edwin Thessalonians Bates came back to town. The little Quonset hut had sat empty for three years when the traveling Evangelist saw a “For Sale” sign nailed to the front door. To him it was a sign from God and, upon this rock, Brother Bates was going to build his church. Not one to take “no” for an answer and certainly not one to hesitate to speak on behalf of the Almighty in His absence, Brother Bates struck quite a deal: Not only did he get the building for no money down (30 years before infomercials) but upon assuring the owner his “Eternal real estate holdings” would be determined by the outcome of the transaction, there was also to be no payment due for six months. Nearly 40 years later, E. T. Bates was the unofficial mayor of “the poor side of town.”
Tonight, about a dozen cars occupied the lot. At the rear of the lot, under the single light bulb that glowed over the back door, sat a red 10-year-old Cadillac. Brother Bates would be present for the services this evening. The gravel crunched underfoot, and Cole made his way to the front, remembering years before when his grandmother would take him to her church as if it were St. Peter’s in Rome. Of course, she would have never compared this sanctified ground to “the dwelling place of the Scarlet Woman.” Nevertheless, she had puffed out her bountiful chest, lodged her well-worn Bible under her arm, and led them in to wait upon the Lord.
“Cole, get ready for a blessing!” she had told him. “The fire is falling, and His Spirit has come to dwell in this place! Blessed be the name of the Lord! Hallelujah!”— before they even got out of the parking lot.
The front of the tabernacle still sported poster boxes from the old Del Rio. Now instead of “Cattle Queen of Montana” and “Lady of New Orleans” one sheets, there were hand-lettered butcher paper signs reading:
Services Nightly 7:00
Lay Your Needs Before the Lord!
Miracles! Healing! Prophetic Messages!
Edwin T. Bates, Evangelist
Not much had changed.
The lobby still had the thick red carpet of the Del Rio, now threadbare in spots. Silver duct tape held some of the seams together, and dark sections told the tale of a leaking roof. The snack bar now displayed tapes, books, and pamphlets by the featured Evangelist. Cole wondered if Guinness had a record for the longest running nightly revival.
“Good evening,” chirped a woman in her 80s. Her hair was curled tightly and held in place by a thin black hairnet. It almost glowed from the bluing that once made the white brighter but now had dyed her thinning hair a pale azure tint.
“Good evening to you!” Sage said brightly.
“Your first time with us?” Her pale gray eyes sparkled behind frameless gold wire glasses. Memories of his grandmother swept over Cole as he took in the old lady smell of flowered soaps and inexpensive dime store perfume, probably purchased before he was born. Her dress was a shiny rayon floral print, just like his grandmother used to wear, and was accented with a yellow-and-orange-colored glass broach. True to his memory, her feet were squeezed into a pair of black lace-up shoes that her ankles overran. Sage smiled at her warmly.
“Have you been around here long, ma’am?” Ma’am? Where had that come from? He hadn’t called anyone “ma’am” in 30 years.
“Oh mercy,” she reflected, “about 35 years, I expect. I came to one of Brother Bates’ meetings the first week he was here. Mercy me, that’s more like 40! My husband, Jack, was still working at the cannery when I first got the baptism. Mercy, mercy, he’s been gone 12 years now. Emphysema. Lord love him. He wasn’t saved ‘til the last, but we’ll walk the streets of glory together now.”
“Maybe you knew my grandma, Zelma Park?”
“Mercy sakes, I loved Sister Park! You’re her grandson! How long has she been gone now? Oh, how I loved to hear her daughter Minnie sing and play the guitar! Mercy, mercy, ‘Mansion Over the Hill Top.’ Oh, what a blessing they were!”
The thought of his Aunt Minnie playing guitar and singing brought an uncontrollable chuckle from Cole. The longstanding family joke was the way his dad would say, “Minnie, I’d rather hear you sing than eat. I’ve heard you eat!” At that, she would always slap her brother on the shoulder and squeal “Yoooou.”
The last time he saw her was at a hamburger stand when he was in college. She bought a Coke and, when the girl handed it to her through the window, the foam had receded to leave the cup’s top inch-and-a-half without soda. Minnie smiled and said as only a 77-year-old Pentecostal spinster could, “You must be a Baptist.”
“Why, yes I am, how did you know?”
“Because your cup’s not full!” Minnie said as she turned and winked at me.
The poor girl never knew what hit her. She knew her theology had just been insulted, but she wasn’t quite sure how. As Cole watched his aunt cross the parking lot and take a seat on the bus bench, he knew the performance had been for him. Minnie had a stroke not long after that and lived out her days in a convalescent hospital full of other old men and women unable to move or speak. Cole had gone to see her with his parents once. She had just lain, eyes wide, lifeless, staring at the ceiling. He never went back. When she died, he got her guitar, a 1950 Harmony Monterey.
“Gomes is my name.” The words brought Cole back to the smiling face in front of him. “Kate Gomes.”
Cole took the hand offered him and said softly, “ Cole Sage is mine.” He was suddenly struck with emotion. Perhaps it was the mortality of everything around him. Maybe he just remembered too much. He slipped past the old woman and through the swinging doors with their big circular windows and into the sanctuary.
Everything was just the same. The gold glitter cross hanging from picture frame wire still hung in an unplanned tilt toward the pulpit, kind of like a model airplane on a kid’s ceiling. The pulpit with its stained plywood still proudly bore the three crosses cut from pine and stained walnut. Two pots of silk flowers wrapped in bright green and red foil and tied with satin bows stood in front of the pulpit. The stage was covered in the same thick red carpet of the foyer and proudly displayed a metallic blue set of Slingerland drums, a Fender bass amp, a Hammond B3 organ, and a row of acoustic and electric guitars. Off to one side sat a small beige tweed Fender amplifier that probably hadn’t been moved in years.
Scattered throughout this musty auditorium were about 50 or 60 people, some chatting, some staring, and some just there to get into the air conditioned building and out of their sweltering houses for an hour or two. Cole took a seat on an aisle about three-fourths back. There was no sense trying to see Bates until after the service. The Reverend had his hand in a little of everything in this part of town. Not that he had any direct power or influence, but
he was a force to be reckoned with. If there was something to know, he knew it.
The tabernacle had been feeding the homeless out of the back door since Bates came to town. When the weather turned bad, the aisles and foyer were turned into a makeshift shelter. There was a trust and sense that Brother Bates was watching out for “the least of these.” His love for the lowest of the low was real, and on more than one occasion, he had raised his booming voice at meetings when the city council members thought some new ordinance or other would help clean up the streets. He usually won, and the street people knew it.
He could help the police without being a snitch, and he could just as easily look the other way when he felt like it. He had an Ecclesiastical sense of right and wrong and would not be swayed left or right once his mind was made up.
Cole nervously flipped the pages of the worn hymnal from the rack on the pew. Cole had never quite got religion. He knew there was a force out there much greater than himself, but what was he to do with it? That was the question that had always been with him. He was raised in a very conservative God-fearing, Bible-believing, church-going, and almost-Pentecostal-but-not-quite family.
On some level, he believed, but he had just seen and heard too many things that didn’t agree with what the folks sitting around him would call his “spirit.” As the organ softly played and the faithful quietly chatted, Cole thought of all his questions about this place and a dozen others he had been to.
The dull hum of the ancient air conditioner and the syrupy lull of the organ took Cole far away to memories long forgotten. He thought of preachers and songs, pulpit flowers and the sharp creased edges of Sunday bulletins, and he closed his eyes and let his memories take him away.
At 13, Cole had heard a traveling preacher talk on the subject, “The Day the Moon Turns Red.” For an hour and a half, the man in the navy blue suit and blazing white shirt spun tales from the Old Testament prophets, enthralling and terrifying his Sunday night crowd. With the authority of Samuel of old, he made his case for the end of the world. The sign would be the face of the moon turning scarlet like the sins of man. He went on to explain that you had better repent or you would be left behind in the horrible day of the Lord. The thing that terrified young Cole was that the moon might turn red that very year! For several weeks, without revealing what he was doing, he would go out in the back yard and gaze up at the moon. On the nights the orb hung in the night sky a pale white, he went back inside relieved that he had a little more time on earth. The thing that sent him into a real panic was the night he went out and there was no moon.
As calmly as he could, with his breath shallow and slow, he asked his father where the moon was.
“Dark of the moon. Only the people on the other side of the world can see it,” his father had replied.
What if it were red? Cole had thought.
Time passed and several full moons occurred before Cole forgot the prophet’s message, only to remember it one night driving home when he was 16. It hadn’t happened. A slip of faith. A false prophet.
Near his 17th birthday, a revival was planned at his family’s church. Cole was asked to run a closed-circuit TV camera so the overflow crowds could watch in grainy black-and-white in the fellowship hall. Cole was so proud he could hardly sleep the night before. The big day arrived. Several hundred people packed the main auditorium and, indeed, seats were occupied in the overflow.
It was like no church service he had ever seen. The Evangelist had brought in professional lighting, sound, and a full band, just like on TV—guitars, bass, drums, piano, organ, horns, and four black backup singers. Suddenly, the room was cast into total darkness. A drum roll slowly built, then a voice like the clap of thunder from above announced: “Brothers and sisters, saints and sinners, open your hearts, open your minds tonight, you will be a witness to a miracle! Tonight! Right here, the fire will fall from heaven and God will anoint his servant. The lame will walk, the blind will see, the deaf shall hear! Raise your hands, raise your voice! Welcome God’s man of the hour, God’s man for America, God’s man for you, the man who will revive this city, Ben Tanner!”
The lights exploded in white light! The band erupted into a crescendo of “This is My Story, This is My Song, Praising My Savior All the Day Long.” From the right side of the stage came a man in a red velvet, gold-zippered jumpsuit. From the wide bell-bottoms, you could barely see the tips and heels of a pair of flamenco boots. His arms were raised high over his head. A Bible in one hand and the other, fingers spread wide. “Give God a handclap!” he shouted, and the audience was on its feet!
The band blasted hot rocking rhythms that no band in Las Vegas could have touched. The people clapped, stomped, and sang. Old ladies with their hair in tight buns on the back of their heads twirled and danced a Holy Ghost jig in the aisles, eyes closed, hands reaching for heaven. Cole didn’t know what to think. He had been fighting a pitched battle with his parents over rock-and-roll since the Beatles were on “Ed Sullivan.” Now, he was peering through his black-and-white lens at a full-blown rock-and-roll concert. He had a vision of the Israelites dancing around the golden calf in “The Ten Commandments.”
For nearly an hour, Tanner led the crowd in old hymns, favorite choruses, and new “songs of praise.” Each song built on the last, the band sailed on a sea of bass and drums. Building, ever building, each song louder than the one before, if that were possible. Men Cole had never seen out of their Sunday best were peeling off suit coats and tearing off ties. Women who were always dressed to the nines, every bouffant hair sprayed carefully in place, now sweating, swaying, and moving like go-go girls. Cole laughed out loud several times. At first, he caught himself remembering where he was, but later realized no one could hear him and certainly no one was watching him.
With a wave of his hand and a signal to the band, Ben Tanner took the pulpit. “Give God a handclap!” The place again roared with applause. He raised his hands like Moses over the Red Sea and said, “Please be seated.”
For just short of 30 minutes, Ben Tanner pranced, stomped, and waved his Bible. For the life of him, though, Cole couldn’t remember a single thing he ever said. What he did remember was very clear: At the end of his sermon Tanner called for the sick, lame, blind, afflicted in any way spiritually, physically, or financially to come to the front of the auditorium. “The power of God is in this place!” Tanner declared and urged those in need to make their way forward to get a “double dose” of what God had in store for them.
Out of the door on each side of the stage came men and women with a stack of black clothes about the size of a bath towel draped across their arms, standing at the ready like a small army of waiters and waitresses. As people came forward by the dozens, the band struck up Tanner’s theme song, “This is My Story, This is My Song.” As the audience sang and swayed, Tanner made his way through the throng massing at the front of the stage. His mic was turned off as he touched and spoke to various people across the front of the group.
On some preordained cue, the mic came back on, and Tanner began muttering and sputtering out something that appeared to be “speaking in tongues.” Then, to the amazement of everyone in the building, he spun around on his heels and slapped his palm to a rather large woman’s forehead. Down she went. Like an old-time silent comedy, bam!, flat on her back with a slight bounce. One of the waiting attendants ran up and covered her from the waist down with one of the black cloths. Bam!, bam!, bam!, one person after another was “slain in the spirit” as Tanner continued to slam his palm against forehead after forehead. When the last person lay flat on their back on the floor, some babbling in an unknown tongue, some twitching and trembling, some dead still, Tanner threw his hands over his head and cried, “Give God a handclap” and—just like Cole would later see James Brown do many times—Tanner’s knees seemed to buckle. He was grabbed and supported by one of his assistants, the band kicked the volume up two notches, and Tanner was led off to a side door. Elvis had left the building.
The
Ben Tanner Revival went on for 36 weeks. Cole’s family gave up after the second week. His father never said anything, but Cole got the distinct impression he wasn’t buying it. Such showmanship didn’t play well with his father’s conservative outlook and demeanor. Cole was replaced as closed-circuit cameraman at the end of week six when the crowds and money dictated that actual TV cameras be brought in and operated by “professionals.” Cole was unceremoniously relieved of duty.
The month-long revival that ended up lasting almost nine stopped as abruptly as Cole’s camera job. Turned out Ben Tanner had an eye for the boys. One afternoon, before, during, or after the sound check and band rehearsal, Tanner was found with the very effeminate Teen Choir pianist, a pimply faced 16-year-old that the guys all called Larry the Fairy. It seems the Pastor of Visitation paid a visit to the fireside room and found Larry bent over the back of a couch, pants around his ankles and Tanner giving him what the English might call an old-fashioned “buggering.”
The revival ended that night with Tanner announcing that the Lord was calling him to Orlando. Larry was swept off to Bible School in Kentucky. The few in the know decided not to let this “sin of the flesh” destroy all the good that had been done. Cole found out when a family friend told his dad over coffee and didn’t know that Cole was reading in his favorite spot on the other side of the kitchen snack bar. The Great Ben Tanner Revival of 1969 was never mentioned again. A second slip of faith, another false prophet.
Three years later, as a college student, the final slip of faith occurred. Cole had found great comfort and excitement in the College Bible Study at the little Assembly of God Church not far from the college. A big deal and much to-do was made about a guest speaker who was to speak on Satan and Witchcraft in Modern-Day America. The announcements promised startling revelation as to how the devil used rock music, art, and the movies to lure young people into witchcraft and devil worship.
In a burst of uncharacteristic Evangelical zeal, Cole invited his friend Chuck and a girl named Robin from his art class. Robin had often told those around her that she was a white witch. She often described Wiccan rituals and her worship of trees. If anybody ever needed to get “saved” it’s her, Cole had thought. To his surprise, she accepted the invitation and promised to come to the meeting.
Cole and Chuck sat near the back on the side so they could see people as they arrived. The speaker was introduced but no sign of Robin. The speaker began a history of witchcraft. He talked about Anton LeVay and the Satanic Bible. At 7:15, in walked Robin, her boyfriend, and another couple Cole didn’t know. The speaker seemed to watch them take their seats. He appeared to lose his place and shuffled through his notes. The speaker began to sweat. He stammered and twice took sips of water from a glass on the pulpit. The next few minutes, the man rambled disjointedly about the history of witchcraft, revival in America and something to do with the meek inheriting the earth. The conviction of his talk and the boldness of his speech seemed to diminish as he went.
About fifteen minutes after they came in, Robin and her friends got up and filed out. As she passed Cole, Robin made a hand gesture he didn’t recognize. It was a fist with her index and little fingers extended. Years later, he would learn that this gesture—now a staple at heavy metal concerts—was “the goat’s head” or sign for the devil. Even without knowing its meaning, the gesture and the look in her eyes gave him a shiver.
As the back doors clanged shut, the speaker wiped his brow with his handkerchief and said, “There has been a repressive spirit in this place. I have never been so attacked by the powers of darkness. It has been lifted, and now I feel I can go on. Let us pray.”
The man at the pulpit lifted his hands heavenward and beseeched his Creator to give him strength to finish his talk. Cole felt he had lost the battle. The idol of Baal had not been toppled, the Red Sea had not parted, and this man seemed to have shrunk. Where was his God? Was it his lack of faith, or had good failed to triumph over evil? How could the college girl witch have reduced this warrior against Satan and witchcraft to this sweaty, quivering coward that stood before him? Cole knew if God were indeed up there, He was embarrassed by the lack of faith in His mighty power this little man professed. Cole left that night and never returned.
“Hallelujah!” a voice that shook the tin walls jolted Cole from his memories. There he was, older, a bit thinner and grayer, but still a giant of a man. Brother E.T. Bates was about to begin the service.
For 60 minutes, Bates shouted, stomped, whispered, sang phrases from old hymns, joked, cried, and pled the blood of Jesus on the sinners in the pews. He was a wonder to watch. His delivery was honed to a razor’s edge from years of services just like this one. There was no emotion, no fear, no hope of glory left untouched. He knew all the buttons to push and in what order. When he pulled his huge white handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the sweat from his scarlet face, it punctuated the point he was making as no words could ever do.
The closing story of the man who had sat in the third row from the back, left hardly a dry eye in the place. It told how many years ago, a man sat in the third row from the back and struggled with the decision to go forward and be saved. “He knew he needed the Lord! That small voice tugged at his heart. His hands sweated and his heart pounded! Just like many of you tonight. He knew, hallelujah, that God was calling him into the family. ‘Behold I stand at the door and knock,’ Jesus said, oh, hallelujah. This fellow heard the knock, but did he answer, my friends? Oh no, he stifled his feelings, he blocked the calling of the Holy Ghost. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘tomorrow I will be saved.’ But how many of us know if we will have a tomorrow? I remember the look of joy on his mother’s face as the young man stood to his feet. I remember how she looked, hallelujah, thinking her wayward boy had come home. I remember how she saw her family restored and her prodigal’s name written in the Lamb’s Book of Life, hallelujah! But oh, my dear ones, I, too, remember the sorrow and heartbreak as he turned and made his way out the back door. I remember that mother burying her face in her hand and sobbing, knowing her baby, her boy, had turned his back on the Savior’s gift of eternal life. I shed a tear as well at that scene, beloved, I had done everything this poor preacher could do to show him the way, but he turned his back on the Word. I wish I could tell you he turned and took the Savior’s hand, I wish I could tell you a story of a life redeemed, I wish I could tell you of a family raising a new generation walking in the path of righteousness. But I can’t.
“You see, that young man left this place that night, he left having heard the small soft voice of the Holy Ghost, he left that night with the invitation song still ringing in his ears, but he didn’t go home, no sir, it breaks my heart to tell you, he sought out his old friends, he sought out those so practiced in sin, so controlled by worldly things, and Satan was right there to welcome him back! To drown that voice deep in his heart, he joined his friends in drink, he joined in their laughter, and to dull the aching need to the Savior, he got drunk!
“When the bar closed that night, he staggered to his car. Barely able to stand, he climbed behind the wheel! Swerving back and forth across the lanes of the highway, he never saw the car stranded on the side of the road. He never saw the father trying to start the stalled engine, he never saw the mother gently rocking her precious baby in the front seat. He never saw the three little ones peacefully sleeping in the back. But, the saddest thing of all, my dear friends, he never saw how the life was crushed out of them when his speeding car hit them from behind, exploding in a ball of fire. That beautiful family snatched from this life and sent into eternity. Now, I don’t know their hearts, I don’t know if they were ready to meet the Savior on the streets of glory. I pray with all my heart they were, and that they are seated at the feet of Jesus tonight, hallelujah! But I do know one thing: I stood by the side of a casket, I stood by the still silent body of a young man who had sat on the third row from the back, and cried tears of sorrow. I cried for that mother. I cried for the choice that young man m
ade, because they would never have a reunion in heaven. For he had made the choice to refuse the gift of eternal life.
“Don’t you do what that young man did, my friend, don’t you refuse the Savior. As our dear sister Maria begins to play ‘Just As I Am,’ you, too, slip from your seat, I want you to answer God’s call and come down to this old-fashioned altar and meet the Savior. You know who you are, you know you need the Savior, come on, come pray with me tonight. And don’t be like that young man in the third row from the back.”
As the organ began to play, Bates walked to the edge of the platform and stood, eyes closed, hands raised heavenward. People began to stream forward. Some to be saved, some for the third or fourth time, but they came forward. Cole sat and watched as old men and women made their way forward and put their hands on the shoulders of those kneeling at the front.
Bates prayed, over and over, for those who had heeded the call. There was a rousing round of “hallelujah”s and “praise the Lord”s, and then the meeting was over. A loud joyous rendition of “In the Sweet Bye and Bye” boomed from the band. They had returned to the platform unnoticed as Bates slipped through the side door.
Cole made his way down the aisle and shook hands with several people. “Lord Bless You this Week” was offered by at least six. He felt a bit apprehensive about using the platform door, but he didn’t want to run the risk not being able to find Bates. The door opened into a hallway lit only by a small fixture in the ceiling. It should’ve had two bulbs but one must’ve been burned out. Cole could hear the sound of coughing coming from an open door down the hall.
“Good evening,” Cole said softly as he tapped on the doorframe.
Inside, Edwin Bates stood, suit coat off, pouring hot water from a kettle heated on a hot plate into a mug. “Good evening. Cup of tea? The old throat isn’t what it used to be,” Bates said with a slightly questioning smile.
“No thanks. My name is Sage, Cole Sage. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“That kind of comes with the territory. What is it, son?”
“I understand you have been speaking out against the Malcor project,” Cole began.
“Now, see here, I will not be threatened or intimidated by you or anyone else! I’m an old man and—”
Cole cut him off. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m on your side! I’m just trying to get some information.”
“I’m so sorry,” Bates said with embarrassment. “I’m getting a little edgy. Been getting threatening messages left on my answering machine. Some pretty nasty letters, too. I guess I look at everybody a little suspect lately. I’m sorry.” Bates set the mug of tea on the table. “Have a seat. Let’s start over.”
“I work for The Sentinel in Chicago.”
“My, my, I had no idea that our little problem drew national attention,” Bates puffed up a bit.
“Well, not exactly. You see, I’m in town helping a friend with some legal troubles and—”
“You’re a lawyer, too?”
“Nope,” Cole smiled, “but she hasn’t got anybody else. I’m kind of pushy and not afraid to stick my nose in things. That’s why I’m here. Do you know a guy named Christopher, Allen Christopher?”
“He’s a real estate agent. Represents Malcor. Been buying up every house he can get his hands on ‘round the airport. I hear he has one of the zoning guys in his pocket. That’s probably rumor.”
“How did you get involved in all this, Reverend?”
“Please, call me Ted. I’m just a country preacher. No college, no degree, just love the Lord.”
“All right.” Cole felt very uncomfortable being on first name basis with E.T. Bates. It seemed to take away the aura, like being a kid again and seeing your favorite teacher in their bathing suit at the lake.
“A lot of my flock comes from the airport district. I was born and partly raised right there on the corner of Hedges and Kent Streets. Our house was originally downtown. It was a little diner called the Three Little Pigs, and my dad bought the building for $100 and had it moved onto our lot. That was in 1934.” Bates realized he was drifting, “Sorry. I get off track sometimes. Anyway, lots of folks out there have been there since the Depression. They own their places, humble as they may be, free and clear. Place to live out their lives. If this zoning change happens, they will get pushed out. Not by choice but by their greedy kids, relatives, and bad counsel.”
“They don’t have to sell, I mean these aren’t ‘forced’ sales are they?” Cole wasn’t getting where Bates was going.
“Well, once one or two take the bait, the others will follow. Trouble is, a big block of houses have been bought up over the years by William Brecker.”
“I know the name. Real estate agent? Got his own office? That guy?”
“Yessir! Becker must own 50 or 60 houses in the district. If he sells, we got problems. If the zoning changes, we got problems. He’s got a lot of pull downtown and ‘for the good of the community’ the city might just force sales of the holdouts.”
“How can they do that? Aren’t the deeds honored under the old zoning ordinances?”
“Not if the properties around them are torn down to make way for future construction. Then we have part ghost town, part neighborhood. It will happen, but then what? These little houses aren’t worth much. Even if they are paid for, what will that dab of money get for them? This is the cheapest section of town. These folks won’t be able to pay the deposit to get into one of those retirement centers on the north side. The renters will be okay. They’ll just find another place. But it’s the older folks I worry about, and that’s who I’m fightin’ for.”
“So, Christopher approaches the homeowners about selling?”
“Yes, Lord forgive me, and there’s a crook if I ever saw one. ‘By your fruits ye shall be known’ and his are plenty rotten. He has told people every cock-and-bull story you can imagine. He even had one old fella who was nearly blind sign a sales agreement and told him it was a refusal letter! This man has no shame. These folks can’t afford a lawyer, so they turn to me and a few of the pastors in the district to see what we can do, and I can tell you, it’s not much. Malcor’s got big bucks and bigger plans, and God help anybody who gets in their way. Check the record for fires lately? Dramatic increase in electrical and attic fires. That’s no accident. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right, we can’t prove it, but doesn’t mean it isn’t so. As a newspaperman, you should know that.”
“The thing I don’t get is the zoning people. They can’t just go from residential to commercial on a whim. There are laws governing things like this.”
“There surely are. That’s our biggest problem. Back in the Depression when this area of town got started, it was a tent city of Dust Bowl refugees. Bottomland by the river that nobody much wanted. So, willing to make a cheap easy buck, a couple of the farmers who owned the land—Bronson and Kerr by name—rather than kick off the squatters, decided to sell. They broke the land into lots and sold it off. No zoning laws back then, and who cared about the Okies anyway? Everyone figured they would drift out just as they drifted in. Some of the folks were tradespeople back home, though, and decided to set up shop out here. My dad was a blacksmith, and his shop was next to our house until he died, and that was during the Korean War. There were mechanics shops, grocery stores, churches, and a veterinary hospital. Later on, there were welders, cabinet shops, all kinds of businesses. There’s still the big lumberyard on Park Street. No one ever bothered to zone the area. Then it was incorporated into the city back in the ‘50s. Nobody paid any attention. That’s why there’s no sidewalks or fire hydrants. Just poor folks with no say-so downtown. Malcor has petitioned to have the whole area east of the river zoned industrial commercial. Since it isn’t zoned at all, it doesn’t really have to be changed. Word is, Christopher has been spreading some money around downtown to get it done quicker.”
“Doesn’t sound too hopeful for the homeowners. But bribery is still a crime, even if it is a done deal.” Cole realized t
here wasn’t much more Bates could offer.
“We need some press on this thing. Can you help?” Bates knew the answer before he asked.
“I’m not sure it would help, being written up in The Sentinel. Maybe the Ledger, huh?” Cole stood to go. “I appreciate your time, Brother Bates. I’ll let you know if I find anything out that will help.”
The big man stood and extended his hand. “I’ll be praying for you.”
“Thanks. Say one for my friend Ellie, too, would ya? She needs it a lot more than me.” Cole thought if there was anyone worthy of God’s ear, it was Bates, and welcomed the help.
“We all need prayer, son. God bless you real good.”
“I hope so.”
EIGHT