Chapter 9

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- 9 -

Ross Cleaver was waiting in the car. Cleaning his nails with his teeth, reading his book about the ghost girl of Watseka, Ill., trying to focus. Occasionally glancing out the window to see if their appointment had arrived.

Bill Lamb, already through with his last bottle of water, fiddling with the radio. Punching the buttons, jumping from one option to the next. Hair metal. Schmaltz pop. Honky-tonk.

Cleaver set his book on his lap. “Do you mind?”

The other man flinched, pulling his hand away from the radio. “What? I’m trying to find something to listen to.”

“I’m trying to read here.”

“Okay.”

Cleaver went back to his book. He was only a few paragraphs in before he heard the radio jumping around again. Classical. Oldies. Rap. Without looking over at the other man, Cleaver reached up and turned the keys. No more power to the radio.

A few paragraphs later, he heard the other man ask, “What are you reading?”

Cleaver sighed and set the book on his lap. Glanced out the window. Nobody yet. Without looking at the other man, he answered, “It’s about the ghost girl of Watseka.”

“Who?”

“The ‘Watseka Wonder.’ Back home in this little town of Watseka, Illinois—”

“Where is that?”

“Close to Chicago. Anyway, in the 1870s, there was this thirteen-year-old girl who could speak with spirits. Doctors said she was retarded or something and should be sent to an insane asylum. Then this other guy in town says his daughter had also actually spoken to spirits, and was also sent to the asylum, where she died.”

“Huh.”

“So the second girl started—” Cleaver saw the car arriving and held up a hand. “Hold it. Here’s the boss.”

As the luxury car pulled up, Cleaver and Lamb got out of the sedan and walked across the gravel. The back window lowered and cigar smoke curled out and left on the wind. The sun in his eyes, the boss, Ted Massey, squinted at them. “What you boys got for me?”

Cleaver and Lamb looked at each other nervously. Lamb coughed, “Urn, boss? We didn’t know we was supposed to bring you a present.”

“News! I’m asking what news you got.”

Cleaver elbowed Lamb. Turned and gave the boss his most serious face. “Everything is on schedule, boss.”

Lamb blurted, “We tried to press the drugstore guy, but he scared us off. ”

The boss puffed a few moments on his cigar. He squinted from one man to the other, then straight at Cleaver. “Is this true?”

“In a way, Mr. Massey.”

The boss smiled. “Was he a big fella? Real bruiser?”

“Sure, he—”

Lamb added, “Little old man. Kinda shaky.”

The boss glared at Cleaver. “Shaky old man, huh?”

Cleaver pretended to ignore his associate, trying to think of the best way to kill the dummy. “You see, it’s like—”

Massey smiled helpfully again. “He was packing, right? Shotgun or something? The guy got the drop on you?”

“Of course, boss—”

“Naw,” Lamb blurted. “Just this old man shaking his finger.”

“Some harmless old man scared you off? All by himself? ”

Cleaver had nothing to say.

Lamb did. “He wasn’t by himself. He had the armies of God hanging over him.”

Massey almost spit out his cigar. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.” He squinted at Cleaver. “You been feedin’ his head with that ghost stuff?”

“No, sir!” Cleaver shook his head vigorously. “Honest!”

“Better not.” The boss turned away, thinking, shaking his head. He looked back at Cleaver and Lamb. “Tell me about the church.”

Cleaver nodded. “Working on it. But these guys seem like some kinda flakes.”

Massey looked at Cleaver and then Lamb and then again at Cleaver. “They got armies of God over them too?”

Cleaver grinned nervously. “Nothing like that. We just have a hard time figuring out who’s in charge, you know? We’re ready to apply the pressure. We just need to know which joints, you know?”

Lamb blurted, “Their board is going to discuss it.”

The boss squinted. “Their what?”

Cleaver had to keep himself from slapping his forehead. “When we spoke to the preacher at the church there, he said he was not allowed to make ‘contracts’ until he spoke with his people.”

Lamb repeated, “Board.”

“Boar?”

Cleaver shook his head. “No, like ‘board of directors.’ ”

“Why didn’t you say that?” Massey looked toward his driver, then back. “So this board is gonna vote on whether we can do a protection racket?”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Mr. Massey.” Cleaver gave a light shrug in Lamb’s direction.

The boss raged. “What do you mean he doesn’t know what he’s talking about?” Eyes still on Cleaver, he pointed his cigar toward Lamb. “I vouched for him. Are you saying I don’t know what I’m talking about?”

Cleaver, dismayed, waved his hands. “No, sir, that’s cr—” He sighed. “No, boss, I ain’t sayin’ that.”

Massey puffed on his cigar. Leaned and tapped ashes into the tray. “Look, we gotta put the screws to this church. Our friend in city government is no longer able to help our cause.”

The dummy asked, “You whack him?”

Cleaver once again squelched the urge to punch him.

The boss, almost amused, shook his head. “No, our friend had a heretofore undisclosed ailment. He had a heart attack.”

“Oh,” Lamb said. “The guy on the news.”

Massey sighed. “Yes. The guy on the news.” Waved his cigar. “Anyway, now he is unable to get that property rezoned for our purposes. As long as that church is sitting there, it will be problematic.”

Cleaver blurted, hoping to end the conversation before the dummy got them in any further, “You want we should burn it down?”

“No. That could bring the Feds down on us. We need these people to move of their own free will.”

“So…”—Cleaver looked at Lamb and at the driver and then the boss—“…we need to convince the entire church to pack up and move away.”

The boss puffed on his cigar and grinned. “Oh, I don’t think it will take all that.”

“No?”

“No.” The boss leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. Looked back at Cleaver with a wicked grin. “You just gotta convince the board of directors.”

The back window rose and the car drove off. Leaving Cleaver and Lamb standing in the parking lot.

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