Spellbinder (16 page)

“Of course,” he said finally, speaking in a low, soft voice, “she became pregnant. I tried to tell her about birth control, but I knew it was no use. I couldn’t tell anyone else to tell her, because then the secret would be out. And, worse yet, I couldn’t simply do the intelligent thing—break it off, arrange for the tabernacle to fire her, and hope that she got back home. I was obsessed, as I said. So, when she told me she was pregnant, I did the next best thing. I suggested an abortion. But she wouldn’t do it. I never thought she would. So—” He shrugged. “So she had the child. A boy. She named him James.”

Speaking quietly, in a voice that was without inflection, revealing nothing, Mitchell asked, “What’s he like, this James? What’s his background?”

“That,” Holloway said, “is the problem. James Carson is a criminal—a vicious, sadistic degenerate, according to my information.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“No. I haven’t seen him, and he hasn’t seen me, to my knowledge. Up until now, as far as I know, he didn’t know I existed. His mother took him to Darlington, North Carolina, soon after he was born. She had an older brother there—Julian Carson. All these years, I sent both of them money. I sent Mary money to keep her child—and to keep her quiet. And I sent Julian a like amount, to make
sure
she kept quiet. He was my insurance, I thought.

“But, four years ago, James went to prison. And less than a year ago, his mother finally went over the edge. She’s completely insane, and she’s institutionalized. About a month ago, I heard from Julian that James was being paroled. So—” He gestured with a heavy, hopeless hand. “So, in one sense, I was expecting this.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

“Yes,” Holloway answered reluctantly. “Yes, I think he probably is dangerous.”

“Then we should get him arrested.”

“It’s not that simple, Lloyd. The fact that he’s here means that he knows he’s my child. And if it ever comes out that I have an illegitimate child—a
degenerate
illegitimate child who’s an ex-convict, with a mother who’s crazy—I’m afraid I’d be in trouble. Deep trouble.”

“I’m not so sure,” Mitchell answered thoughtfully. “A lot of things are hushed up. They’re whispered about, but they’re never made public—like Kennedy’s love affairs, for instance. There’s a kind of gentlemen’s agreement, not to smear public figures.”

Holloway nodded. “That’s right. That’s very true. Which is precisely why all this has never been a problem. Certainly, over the years, there’ve been suspicions about me and Mary—and about me and other women, too, as far as that goes. As you well know. But that’s exactly the point, Lloyd. As long as everything’s done quietly, there’s no problem. There’re whispers, but nothing more. But let something appear on the public record—an arrest, for instance, that would connect me and James—and all bets would be off. I’d be finished. I’m not saying that everything would collapse around our ears. Probably it wouldn’t. God knows, Aimee Semple McPherson weathered many a storm. But, at the very least, I’d have to keep a low profile, and simply ride it out. Which would mean, sure as anything, that the China Crusade would die a-borning. And that, I won’t tolerate.”

“What’s to be done, then?”

“I don’t know,” Holloway answered slowly. “I’m sorry to say, I don’t know.”

“Maybe all he wants is money. If he doesn’t want too much, it might work out. I think I should meet with him, and size him up. He might take a hundred thousand dollars, and go on his way.”

“Somehow I doubt that. Blackmailers, you know, always want more. They keep coming back.”

Mitchell lifted his massive shoulders, shrugging. “Let him come back, then. As long as he stays away from you, and keeps quiet, and doesn’t ask for too much, where’s the harm? After all, you’ve been paying him, in a manner of speaking, for years.”

“I suppose,” Holloway answered thoughtfully, “that you could be right.” He sat silently for a moment, considering. Then, decisively, he nodded. “You
are
right, Lloyd. As always. How do you suppose that we handle it?”

“I take it,” Mitchell said, “that Flournoy doesn’t know any of this.”

“I’ve already told you, Lloyd, that you’re the only one who knows the whole story. Howard knows about the calls, of course. But that’s all.”

“Does he know that blackmail’s involved?”

“Yes,” Holloway admitted. “And that’s what concerns me. I don’t want him to know about Mary and James. I don’t want him to have that knowledge—that leverage.”

“I don’t see why you say that. As nearly as I can see, Flournoy knows everything about you and your operation. He’s loyal.”

“Howard is loyal as long as it suits his purposes, Lloyd. But I’m getting old. I’m sick. One of these days, I’m going to die. And Howard is thinking ahead. So is Elton. And Teresa. And God knows who else. What we’ve got here, Lloyd, is an immensely profitable organization—and it’s all built around me. That’ll change, someday, and nobody knows it better than Howard. He’s an ambitious man, Lloyd. And evangelism is a big, big business. Oral Roberts has his university. Armstrong has his real estate, and his jets. The Southwest Christian Network has its own communications satellite, and they’re talking about putting another one up. That’s a lot of money—a lot of power. And that’s what Howard wants. Money, and power.”

“But—”

“Howard wants to call the shots. He’d like to have his man—or woman—up there in front of the cameras, Sunday morning. He’d like to see me retire. He wants an orderly transition of power, you might say—provided he comes out on top. And that’s the reason I’d just as soon he doesn’t know the whole story, where James is concerned.”

Mitchell frowned. “It might be hard, to keep him in the dark. It might be impossible.”

“Maybe. But we can try.”

“We might be able to go around him. James wants to talk to you, directly. If you’re willing to do that—” He let the question linger.

Reluctantly, Holloway shook his head, at the same time tapping his chest. “I can’t do it, Lloyd. I just can’t take the risk, with this heart of mine. I’d be afraid.”

For a long moment Mitchell sat silently, eyes somber, mouth thoughtfully set. Finally he said, Maybe you should retire. If you retired, the whole problem would vanish. Maybe it’s time.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Holloway answered softly. “But, right or wrong, I just can’t do it. Maybe it’s something to do with my past—my heritage. My Daddy died with his face in the sawdust. Maybe that’s the way I’m destined to go, too.”

In response, Mitchell was gravely nodding.

Yes, he understood.

D
ENISE PUT THE PLASTIC
shopping basket on the counter, and looked at her list. Except for scallions, she’d gotten everything. Mr. Byrnes was out of scallions. She balled up the list and tossed it into a cardboard box behind the counter, that Mr. Byrnes used for trash. For as long as she’d lived in the neighborhood—more than two years—Mr. Byrnes had used the same “Old Grandad” box for his trash.

At the counter, a tall, unhealthy-looking teen-ager with sallow skin and an advanced case of acne was trying to persuade Mr. Byrnes that he needed a six-pack of beer for his mother. Flattening a crumpled note on the counter with a grimy palm, he complained: “But that’s my mother’s signature, Mr. Byrnes. You
know
it’s her signature.”

“On the contrary, Charlie,” Mr. Byrnes said, glancing briefly at the note. “The fact is, I know it’s
not
her signature.”

“But, Jesus, you haven’t even looked at the signature, for God’s sake.” The thin voice rose to a high, aggrieved note, cracked, and fell. The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed indignantly.

“That’s correct, Charlie,” Mr. Byrnes answered equably, “I haven’t looked at it. The reason being, your mom already told me that she’s not writing any more notes for beer. Or, for that matter, for anything else. Now, if that’s all you wanted, then I’d better wait on Denise, here.”

“
Shit
.” The teen-ager snatched up the note, jammed it into his hip pocket, and stalked out of the small grocery store. Watching him go, Mr. Byrnes slowly, regretfully shook his head. “Charlie is a bad apple,” he said quietly. “I’ve known him since he was six years old, when his father took off with a secretary, for God’s sake. His mother works hard, to try and raise Charlie. She’s a good woman. But Charlie, he’s breaking her heart. And it’s going to get worse, not better. It’s obvious.”

“I agree with you.”

You know Charlie?

“No, but I believe you.”

“Yeah.” Mr. Byrnes gave a final shake of his head, then emptied her basket on the counter, and began ringing up her purchases on an old-fashioned cash register. At age sixty-three, he was a short, compactly made man, totally bald, with quick shrewd eyes and a paunch as round and solid as a medicine ball. He walked with a rolling, bandy-legged swagger, and talked with a brusque, salty directness, both the result of years spent on the docks, working as a stevedore. A year ago, when two knife-wielding heroin addicts tried to rob him, Mr. Byrnes used the cut-down baseball bat that he kept under the counter to break one of the hoodlum’s collar bones. The other hoodlum had run—with Mr. Byrnes in hot pursuit. Peter heard the shouts, and ran out into the street to join the chase. When Mr. Byrnes had been forced to stop running, winded, Peter had taken up the baseball bat, finally cornering the hoodlum in a parking lot, holding him at bay until the police arrived. Ever since, Mr. Byrnes and Peter had been friends. At least once a week, after the store was closed, the two men emptied a bottle of red wine in the storeroom, telling stories of the docks.

“You don’t have any scallions in the refrigerator, do you?” Denise asked.

“Sorry. I won’t have any until tomorrow. Anything else?”

“No, thanks.”

“Eleven forty-five, please.”

She put twelve dollars on the counter, and dropped the change into her coin purse. With her purchases bagged, Mr. Byrnes pushed the brown paper sack across the counter. “Where’s Peter, anyhow? It’s been a week, at least, since I’ve seen him.”

“He’s up in Mendocino. He’s taking some time off from work, to write.”

“Is that where he’s got his cabin? Mendocino?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before he decided to ask: “How’s Peter doing, anyhow, with his writing?”

She shrugged. “It’s a tough business, Mr. Byrnes. Considering the time he’s been trying—really trying—I think he’s done as well as most. But—still—it’s tough.”

Mr. Byrnes nodded. “I can see that. I mean, if it was easy—just writing TV scripts, and sending them in, and getting paid—then everyone’d be doing it. Right?”

She smiled—wistfully, she knew. It had been eight days since Peter had left. She missed hearing him around the apartment—missed feeling him beside her in the night. She missed the touch of his hands, caressing her naked body.

“Peter’s smart, though,” Mr. Byrnes was saying. “He’s got class, you know? Not polish, especially—not sophistication, or anything like that. But he’s—” He waved a short, muscular arm. “He’s got things on his mind, you know? He’s a thinker. And people like that, they should do something with what they’re thinking and feeling. Otherwise, it’s a waste.”

Once more she smiled, pleased. “I agree with you, Mr. Byrnes. I agree completely.”

“You’ve got class, too,” he announced. He spoke matter-of-factly, almost reluctantly. As if to demonstrate that he was speaking seriously, not frivolously.

“Thank you.”

Reinforcing his serious intent, he nodded sternly. “You’re welcome.” He let a beat pass, then said, “Did I ever tell you that I knew Eric Hoffer, when I was working on the docks?”

“No. But Peter told me. Were you friends?”

“I can’t say we were ever friends. He kept pretty, much to himself. He was always thinking, you know? Just like Peter. But, on the other hand, I knew Eric as well as anyone, I guess.”

“Did he talk about his philosophy?”

Mr. Byrnes shook his head. “Not really. I mean, he didn’t talk philosophically-or anything like that. But, every once in a while, if you got him started, he’d talk about politics, and how people lived. And, mostly, how they
should
live. He’s got very strong opinions, I can tell you that.
Very
strong opinions.”

“Well—” She reached for the groceries. “I’d better be going.”

But, before she lifted the sack, he said, “That must be your mother, that was with you in the car yesterday.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“A fine-looking woman.” He smiled. “It runs in the family, Denise. There’s a resemblance. No fooling.”

“Thank you.”

“She’s—ah—staying with you when Peter’s away writing. Is that it?”

“Yes.” She lifted the sack. “Something like that.”

“Well, when Peter calls, say hello for me, will you?”

“I wish he could, Mr. Byrnes. But there isn’t any phone in the cabin. There isn’t even any electricity.”

“Oh. Well—” Once more, he smiled. “Well, then, we’ll both of us’ll have to wait, until he comes home.”

She returned the smile, nodded, and walked to the door. As she turned back to close the door, she saw Mr. Byrnes watching her. He was frowning, as if he were worried. Was it because Peter was gone, and Mr. Byrnes didn’t like to see her alone?

Or was it because of the bottle of gin she carried—her mother’s ration for the day?

“Tonight,” she said, “I’ll do the dishes. You go into the living room, Mother. Relax.”

Her mother put up a hand. “No.
You
relax, Denise. You did them last night. And, besides, it’s been years since I’ve done dishes. I
like
to do them. Really.” As she said it, she smiled—too brightly. Across the table, dressed in a Chinese silk housecoat, with pearls at her throat and red silk slippers on her feet, her mother could have been costumed for a Noel Coward play. Every hair was in place. Her makeup was flawless. As she lifted her coffee cup, diamond rings caught the light, flashing blue-white. The dialogue, too, could have come from a drawing room comedy: stilted and mannered. Communicating nothing. Saying nothing, really.

Mothers and daughters—eternal strangers, someone had said.