A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [123]
“Slightly under a million.”
“What’re my total deposits?”
“Thirty million in eight accounts.”
Red scratched his head. “Bank a half million of the new money and give me the rest in cash.”
“I’ll prepare it, sir.”
You bet your sweet ass you’ll prepare it, you Swiss fart, Red thought to himself. “I’ll pick it up at six in the morning.”
Handshakes and curt nods all the way around.
Red smirked as he left the villa. Bunch of thieves, he thought. But then Coo-Coo and Du-Du would be…waiting…and, he broke into his first smile in days, Greta would wear the G-string. Not a bad deal.
Chapter 33
Hosanna Corner in the godforsaken outskirts of godforsaken Lubbock had ministered to the righteous and the sinner in its alternative histories. Hosanna Corner had come into being after the Civil War as the last watering hole before the wagon trains plunged into the southwest desert.
Nearly a century later, during the heyday of the West Texas oil strike, it naturally evolved into a saloon with gambling and prostitution amenities. When the oil patch collapsed, thousands lost it all and were left with land that could scarcely grow a crop.
Lubbock turned into a mean and nasty place where the American dream had betrayed the wild-catters, roughest of all men.
Hosanna Corner returned to a sense of grace as a local gathering house where a variety of Christian sects tried to gain a foothold among the discontent.
This was a big meeting night. Passwords and identification were required. Red Peterson entered and spotted a lone chair in the rear. The big main floor had been reconfigured with tables removed and chairs set up in auditorium style.
Red seated himself, alone, tilted his chair against the wall, and squinted at the cast of characters. On one side of the bar, a poster of a lynched Negro. On the other side, a photograph of the Waco burning. The bar served as an altar, bearing a standing cross. Klansmen unhooded themselves, feeling relief to be among their own. More secret greetings.
Now a half dozen Oregon skinheads tacked a poster of Adolf Hitler on a wall.
Words across the back bar mirror told them that YAWEH IS HERE!
A dozen men wearing silk shirts adorned with an orange cross and an orange quasi-swastika took their seats in the first row. These were the new preachers to be sworn in to the White Aryan Christian Arrival, WACA.
The room lowered to dim light, a reminder that most of their work was carried out in darkness.
Members of the West Texas Militia, sporting tattoos and Uzis and gigantic mustaches and red bandanas, encircled the chairs.
“This is an important meeting,” a Klansman opened. “We are gathered to swear in a dozen new preachers of the White Aryan Christian Arrival.”
As the Klansman lay fist against heart, the room leapt to its feet and returned the salute. The chant of “White power!” resonated, shaking the Hosanna Corner to its foundation.
The dozen new preachers took their oath of office.
“…we will cleanse this nation of ethnic adulteration. We will defend the purity of our women against mongrel infestation and our children from heathen perverts and homosexuals. We swear all this in the name of Jesus Christ and the memory of His forgotten son, Adolf Hitler.”
“White power! White power! White power!”
“And now the moment has come to hail our spiritual leader, the moderator of the White Aryan Christian Arrival…Pastor Ed Jenkins…Pastor Ed.”
Cheers, half bows, arm-thrusted salutes welcomed Pastor Ed to the altar. They hoorayed a small bespectacled man, everyone’s Uncle Ed dressed in polyester civilian clothing, frayed and unkempt, a tireless worker for the movement.
Red Peterson snuck a drink, as did a fair number of flask carriers about the room.
“There are government spies here tonight,” Pastor Ed began. “Look at your neighbor. Is he one of them?”
“No!”
“As you know, brothers, I have been discharged from prison when the foul and dishonest government dropped their sedition case against