beneficiaries.'
'And shrinks,' Brooks added, rubbing his chin again. 'Although reporters don't really have the same protection that doctors and lawyers do, even considering the First Amendment.'
'Do you have a problem with speaking with us?' Eleanor said.
'My dear,' he said, baring a row of uneven teeth, 'if I had a problem with speaking with you, you wouldn't be here. Most people wait weeks to see me, and you've waited barely a hundred and twenty minutes.'
'Then let me rephrase the question,' I said. 'Why are you afraid of us?'
Brooks's smile got a little broader. 'Don't flatter yourself. I understand the media, that's all. I know that a good story outweighs all ethical considerations, and I know that ripping the living flesh off a religion is generally considered to be a good story. It doesn't matter how many people are being helped by the religion or how many will be devastated by its destruction, the only point is that it sells papers. Jackals,' he said mildly. 'Most members of the press are jackals.' He smiled disarmingly. 'Present company excepted, of course.'
'Who runs the Church?' Eleanor said bluntly.
'The Speaker, of course. And her mother, I suppose.'
'No,' Eleanor said. 'They may be responsible for doctrine, but that's not what I mean. Who controls the finances?'
Brooks folded one hand placidly over the other. 'I have no idea,' he said.
'Who negotiated the purchase of that hotel downtown?' Eleanor said, playing one of the cards Chantra had given us.
'Hotel?' Brooks said, the picture of surprised innocence. 'You know more about the Church's business than I do. I'm not a real-estate agent. Why ask me?'
'We're talking about millions of dollars. They must have had legal help.'
'I'm sure they did,' Brooks said prissily, 'but it wasn't I. This is way outside my line.'
'And the television studio?'
'Same answer. I don't do real estate. But even if I did, what's wrong with a religion purchasing property? What's wrong with a religion having a television studio? I hope you'll forgive my being presumptuous, but it seems to me that you've already drawn your conclusions and all you're looking for is confirmation. Well, I'll provide it. Yes, the Church makes money. You seem to feel that's wrong. Why shouldn't it? Do you think Americans are drawn to organizations that are financial failures? Would we help more, or fewer, people if we were to declare bankruptcy?
'You're out of touch,' he continued. 'What Americans want from a religion today isn't sanctuary for their souls through eternity. It's success in life, this life, that people want now. The afterlife was a powerful image three hundred years ago because life on earth was, for most people, brutish, grueling, and short. Well, that's not true anymore. For people today, the majority of white people at any rate, life is acceptable-but it could be better. It could be more materially successful. The Church of the Eternal Moment works because it is successful. If it didn't work, if it were a financial failure, it wouldn't have any followers. The more real estate the Church owns, the more hours on cable it can buy, the more the people who want success for themselves will believe in it. The more they should believe in it. The Church doesn't hide that. On the contrary, it flaunts the fact. Every win for the Church is a win for the worshipers. If the Church can't take care of itself, how can it take care of the faithful?' He gave his chin a triumphant massage.
'So it all comes down to bucks,' I said.
'Mr. Swinburne,' he said, 'if that really is your name, which I find difficult to believe, please don't pretend a naivete you don't really possess. What, in contemporary American society, doesn't come down to bucks? Money is the common denominator. Get rid of everything else, and what's left is a desire for material success. The Church of the Eternal Moment has never promised anything but success in this lifetime. We're not ashamed of it. We're proud that we have the key. If you printed this interview word for word tomorrow morning, we'd have five thousand new applicants by noon. And you know what? We'd satisfy them. They'd get what they came for.' He stopped rubbing his chin and glanced at his watch.
'Seven minutes,' I said. 'How many dollars? What's the Church's annual income?'
'It supports itself. As a religion we don't have to give precise income figures to the IRS. I'm certainly not going to give them to the media.' He rubbed his chin again. 'Period.'
There was a moment of silence.
'Money aside,' Eleanor said, 'you're saying that the Church provides no guidance on the eternal questions.'
'And what are those?' Brooks asked.
'Life, death. Heaven, hell. Eternity. Anything that helps people relate their lives, whatever it is that they have to endure, to something more, um, permanent, something that helps them put life and death into some kind of perspective, something that suggests that people do more than just eat and excrete and procreate and die.'
'Isn't that enough?' Brooks said. 'Especially if you have a good time doing it?'
'No,' Eleanor said. 'It's not. For Dale Carnegie, maybe. As a self-help manual for the shortsighted. But it's not a religion, at least not as I understand the term.'
He shrugged. 'I don't really care how you understand the term.'
'In what regard is the Church a religion, other than its tax-exempt status?' I asked.
Meredith Brooks tilted his head back daintily and laughed. It was a laugh Hubert Wilburforce could have learned from, a lilting, melodious, manicured little laugh, five light, tripping steps down the scale of mirth. I hadn't heard anything like it since La Boheme.
'Now let's hear you cough,' I said. 'This should be in the minor.'
The laugh subsided into a complacent smirk. 'Tax exemption for religions, as I'm sure you remember from school, is just a manifestation of the separation between church and state, which is absolute-to use the exact words of the California Supreme Court-'no matter how preposterous the belief.' It may relieve you, though, to know that we pay for our tax-exempt status. We have Internal Revenue camping on our doorstep eighteen hours a day. Even if we don't file returns.'
'Poor you,' I said. 'The Church is a business.'
'What's the L.A. Times!' Brooks said. 'Amnesty International? Greenpeace? The League of Women Voters? The Times, like all newspapers, clings frantically to its First Amendment rights in the name of truth, justice, and the American way. And then they devote their hallowed pages to lingerie ads and half-baked exposes. Please. We're all adults here, even though Miss Chan's I.D. would probably be checked in any bar in town. The Church is completely candid about what it offers and what it delivers. You can pretend any kind of piety you like for your readers, but in this room it doesn't wash. If you'll excuse a lapse into the vernacular, give me a break.' He shifted around in his chair and pressed something under the desk.
'You're not a religion,' I said. 'What are your annual fees from the Church?'
'We're not a publicly held corporation either,' Brooks said winningly, 'and our fees are none of your business.'
The door opened.
'Sorry to interrupt,' Marcy said.
'Don't be sorry,' Brooks said, stroking his chin. 'These lovely people were just going.'
'Don't get up,' I said. 'I'd hate you to lose the shine on the soles of your shoes.'
Brooks pulled the thick gold bracelet out from under his cuff and buffed it on his lapel. 'Polish is everything,' he said. 'Nice to have met you.'
'I hope you enjoy the story,' Eleanor said, standing and stowing her notebook in her purse.
'I won't. I never read the Times. Marcy will show you out.'
Marcy did, closing the door behind us firmly and leading us back toward the reception area.
'What a greaseball,' Eleanor said disgustedly. Marcy made a reproving noise.
'What my colleague is suggesting,' I amended, 'is that Mr. Brooks is certainly smooth.'
'Smooth?' Marcy chuckled. 'Darling, the man makes Teflon look like stucco.' She pushed her miniature garage door opener and we were in the lobby. 'The elevator's waiting,' she said. 'Have a safe trip, now. It's a long way down.'
