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

have said Burbank or Pasadena or been headed south to Long Beach and the story would be different. But this car said Glendale.

Leaving the car at Silver Lake just past Van de Kamp’s bakery and the Ford dealership, he could have entered any number of places along Glendale Boulevard. The one he chose, Tony’s, had a window poster showing exactly what he wanted, a three-scoop vanilla sundae with whipped cream and strawberry sauce topped with a cherry in a tulip-shaped glass vase, and so in he went. He perched on a stool under the overhead fan, made his order and watched as the pretty girl whose figure was nicely displayed in a crisp brown uniform with the top buttons undone and a white apron cinched tightly at the waist put three scoops in the dish and slowly poured the strawberry syrup, which oozed down the sides of the white mounds like fiery lava.

“Whipped cream?”

“Oh, yes, please.” He knew he shouldn’t, that he was beginning to show a little extra at the waist and recently had to have his trousers let out, but on a hot day like this he could make an exception. The young woman held up the walnuts and he nodded. Walnuts are good for you. He noticed the nametag on the apron. He also noticed that she wore no ring.

“Cherry?”

“Oh yes, please. Just like the picture in the window.”

He took off his hat and sunglasses. “I’d like a cup of coffee to go with that, Angie,” he said in his well-modulated preacher’s voice. “What a lovely name you have. Where are you from, Angie?”

“Texas,” she said, setting the sundae down with a spoon in front of him and pouring the coffee. She hadn’t paid much attention before, but now looked at him closely. Something in the voice. “Beaumont.”

“Ahh,” he said. “Texas. Never been there myself.”

“Not worth the bother.”

Willie was an impressive man, and he knew it. Though nearly twice the age of the young lady, he was not shy in showing off his skills. Communication, after all, was his business. He was the intermediary between Jesus and a world of sinners, a world whose salvation depended on his skills, a fearsome responsibility. He noted her brown hair, thick and tossed and down over the forehead. Her skin was creamy tan or gently olive, not unlike his own. Her eyes were deep brown and her mouth small but perfectly formed, as red and luscious as the cherry before him. It showed a sadness, and he wondered about that. Sadness was a big part of Willie’s life. What could there be in this pretty young girl’s life that brought sadness.

“What got you in the ice cream business?” he asked, hoping no one would walk in to disturb their tête-à-tête.

She leaned back against the rear counter, arms folded under her breasts, scrutinizing him. “You’re kidding.”

“Of course, I am. I wanted to see you smile.”

She smiled. The sadness went away.

“You could be in pictures, you know.”

“Ah . . . one of those. You’ve got a contract for me?”

He laughed. She was saucy. He loved it. Before he could answer he saw a change in her face. She was uncertain about something.

“Are you in pictures?”

“Well, not exactly.”

She turned away, but quickly back again. “Oh my God, I thought I recognized your voice.” Realizing what she’d said, she quickly added: “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Willie dug into his sundae. Sometimes he didn’t mind being recognized. “Don’t worry about it, my dear.”

“I’ve been to the temple,” she said. “I am a Soldier. It’s just that I never saw you up close before. I’m up in the rafters.”

Willie put down his spoon. His smile lit up the ice cream parlor. “Hallelujah! Put your sins behind you.”

“Whosoever abideth in Him sinneth not.”

“My goodness. John 3:6. The Lord be praised. You know your scripture. Tell me, Angie, what brought you to our glorious city?”

♦ ♦ ♦

Eddie’s advice to come to Los Angeles was the best his brother ever received. So he firmly believed. Without Eddie, he would still be with the bums on Turk Street. They arrived with the water that irrigated the land that brought the people who bought Eddie’s homes and oil and hooch and filled Willie’s temple. Willie wasn’t the only evangelist in Los Angeles, but he was ordained and a former missionary and in a profession of charlatans—some of whom he knew weren’t even Christians—Willie’s skills stood out. Rabble-rousers like the Rev. Bob Shoemaker preyed on God’s little people—the poor, the unfortunate, the colored—and Willie denounced them regularly. “There is no darkness nor shadow of death where the workers of iniquity may hide themselves,” he preached.

Encouraged by Shoemaker and others jealous of Willie’s success, the workers of iniquity had begun digging into his past, combing through what was known of his career but finding nothing to attack him with. His personal life was spotless (how could they have known of Chun hua?) and his professional life exemplary, but that hardly slowed down the inquiry of those whose self-appointed task was to find corruption and charlatanry where none existed. Newspapers assigned star reporters to the temple in an attempt to expose him as one more fraud in a city full of them. One by one they came back shaking their heads.

Finally, the Times had to admit it:

Did the Rev. Mull’s prayers, his shouts of “heal, heal, heal” and his laying on of hands, produce what he said it would? The answer must be an emphatic yes. Our reporter approached the healed over a series of weeks, and their testimony left no doubt. Call it what you will, hypnotic power, positive thinking, subliminal suggestion or faith in Jesus Christ, it worked for these people, and that is enough for us.

He courted Angie warily.

If the Bible is full of admonitions against fornication, so is it full of fornication. With reporters stalking him and the Rev. Bob Shoemaker and other apostates hounding him, one bitter woman was all it would take. He could not preach against the temptations