Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

“I hope it’s not fifty-fifty,” said Nelly.

“Of course not!”

He finished off his second Old Fashioned. “Look, anyone can walk around saying, I bet there’s oil down there. Let’s drill. But it takes money to drill and risk coming up dry and going broke. Somebody told Ed Doheny to start digging on Alvarado because stuff was oozing up, but Doheny was the guy who got the loans and took the risks and when the oil came up got rich, not the guy who told him to start digging. That’s just the way it is.”

“Something not right about that,” said Cal.

“The real world, winners and losers.”

“Why do there have to be losers?” asked Cal.

“Dammit, Cal, it’s the way it is, accept it.”

“Eddie,” said Nelly, reproach in her voice.

“No, dammit. Creative destruction, it’s the way of the world. Winners and losers. Look at this city, look at Los Angeles, entirely built on water that was taken—call a spade a spade—stolen from the Owens Valley. They had to die so we could live. Even Willie will tell you there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s called the lesser evil. Right, Cal?”

“He could sue, couldn’t he?” said Cal.

“For God’s sake, Cal, drop it!”

Chapter 6

For months he’d stewed. Fifty-fifty, that was the deal. He’d been robbed, held up just as surely as if bandits had stopped the stage and walked off with his gold dust. He’d seen a lawyer, who asked to see the contract. Contract, what contract? He’d trusted Eddie because he trusted his brother. He’d gone to Mull Enterprises in Santa Monica and been turned away. He’d phoned and been hung up on. He’d written letters (unpublished) to the newspapers. Eventually, Eddie sent a check for five hundred dollars, finder’s fee he called it. As if he could be dismissed like someone who finds your dog. He needed to talk to Willie. Willie would help him.

He’d gone through that five hundred dollars in a month, always lived like that, hardtack and water while prospecting and steak and whiskey when he hit. He’d misjudged his man, and the first time was always the last. He was broke, moved to a fleabag on Vermont Avenue and even went up to Bel Air when he found out where Eddie lived. He took the Pacific Electric trolley out Wilshire and trudged up through Westwood to the gates on Sunset and kept climbing like he used to do in the mountains only in hills of Bel Air the gold wasn’t in lodes but in houses and swimming pools and three expensive cars in the garage. He’d stood out like a crow in a dovecote and wasn’t a mile up the hill when a cruising guard spotted him and ran him out with the warning that next time he’d run him in for trespassing.

He’d gone to Willie soon after the oil strike, explained that he’d become a rich man and intended to give it away. “The church I will build for you will be the most glorious house of God west of the Great Salt Lake, and must be superior to the Mormons for they are heretics. Find the site, Reverend. I will provide the money for the Temple of the Angels.”

Willie loved the name but was surprised by the offer. Eddie had said nothing about a partner, and when Willie phoned, told him to forget Callender, that he was taking care of things himself. Willie forgot about it and set himself to finding a property to build on. The Church of the New Gospel needed a permanent home, one grand enough for the congregation, which just went on growing. They’d begun Sunday evening services—called “shows”—to compete with the growing audience for Sunday night dramatic radio.

He found an empty square block in Echo Park, next to a pretty little lake with geese and swans ten minutes from downtown on the Pacific Electric’s Big Red cars, another ten minutes from growing Glendale. Conveniently, the sign on the property said: “Mull Real Estate.” Eddie not only was agent for the land but owned it. Mirabile dictu. Everything was coming together.

Callender finally got his man alone on a busy Sunday following morning services. Willie had finished preaching, baptisms, blessings and healing, made his goodbyes, dismissed the elders and staff and closed the front doors, believing the church was empty. Overworked, exhausted, he’d turned down lunch with the elders and retreated to his office for a nap on the couch before the staff returned to open the kitchen and begin preparations for the evening show. They were feeding people now. Sundays were nonstop.

He’d just closed his eyes when he heard the door creak.

“You gotta help me, Reverend.”

Startled, Willie sat up. “Oh, it’s you, Henry.”

“It’s about your brother.”

“Oh, dear.”

As always, he was dressed in the suit that needed pressing, the boots that needed polishing and carrying the hat that needed brushing. His mustache was longer, drooping more and giving his long, weathered face an even more lugubrious look. He wore his jacket over what looked like an undershirt and had knotted a red handkerchief around his neck. Willie had not seen him leave with rest of the congregation. He came in, shut the door and crossed to the chairs facing the pastor’s desk, moving a chair to the couch. The couch stood against a side wall behind a coffee table on which was posed the Spanish walnut chess set from Tesoro, the set once belonging to Grandpa Otto. A game was underway. Willie’s custom was to keep a running game going with himself.

Willie laid back down. He would let the man have his say. It was his job.

But Callender wasn’t talking. He was examining the board. Willie saw an intelligence in the man’s face he hadn’t noticed before. Despite the old clothes, there was something neat, almost prim about him, meticulous. His blue eyes and black mustache shone out from a closely shaven, weathered face. He liked Callender, liked him even before he’d struck oil. He was obviously a man of