“I did not mention beliefs in my report,” Sara interrupted. “I discussed finances and taxes.”
Sanders smiled. “You think you are so clever, don’t you, Miss Lowell? Do you really think that your petty report can hurt my ministry? You are a stupid woman. In trying to destroy me, you have done the very opposite.”
Sara leaned against her cane. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you’ll excuse me…” She began to hobble back toward the party, but Sanders reached out and gripped her elbow firmly.
“The money has been pouring in since we went off the air, Miss Lowell. My eight hundred number is ringing like crazy. The free publicity from the show—”
“Let go of me or start singing soprano.”
His grip tightened. “Your attacks on me have mobilized my supporters. The righteous see a threat, and they are rising to help—”
“Is there a problem here?”
Sanders released Sara’s arm and spun quickly toward the voice. His smile was back in place. “Why, you’re Michael Silverman! The basketball star! I’m a big fan of yours. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Sara watched as Sanders stuck out his hand. Michael’s eyes were burning, his temper just barely reined in. Sara moved toward Michael and caressed his shoulder. Michael’s muscles were taut and knotted. He continued to ignore the reverend’s outstretched hand. A few seconds later Sanders withdrew it, his smile faltering just slightly.
“Yes, well, it was nice chatting with you all,” Sanders rambled, “but I really must be going back to the party now.”
“Oh, must you?” Michael countered.
Sanders was sweating profusely now. “I look forward to seeing you both at the party,” he said. “Good-bye, Miss Lowell.”
“Good-bye, Reverend.”
Sanders turned toward Michael. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Silverman, the Holy Crusade is a big supporter of Israel. I thought you should know.”
Michael watched Sanders disappear down the corridor. “Permission to beat his head in.”
“Permission denied… for now.”
“You never let me have fun anymore,” Michael said, beginning to relax a little.
“I’m sorry.”
“And he’s a big supporter of Israel. Isn’t that nice, hon? I bet some of his best friends are Jewish.”
Sara nodded. “He probably wants to convert.”
“I’ll perform the bris.”
Michael hugged Sara tightly. “You all right?” he asked.
“Fine,” Sara replied. She took off her glasses and wiped them with Michael’s handkerchief. “So what have you been up to tonight, my valiant hero?”
Michael shrugged. “The usual — saving small children from fires, fighting crime in the streets, getting pawed by your sister.”
Sara laughed. “Cassandra can be a tad aggressive.”
“Just a tad — like Napoleon. You weren’t upset, were you?”
“Me?” Sara asked. “Never. I did, however, feel this strong desire to bash her head in with my cane.”
“That’s my girl.”
“You fought her off bravely, I suppose.”
He put his fist to his chest. “My chastity remains intact.”
“Good.”
“By the way, you were great tonight.”
She arched her eyebrows.
“I meant on the show, silly girl. No wonder Sanders was pissed off. You tore his ass to pieces.”
“But he’s probably right, Michael. All the expose will do is galvanize his supporters and gain him a few new ones.”
“In the short run maybe. But even imbeciles learn eventually.”
“They’re not imbeciles. A little gullible perhaps…”
“Whatever,” he replied, taking her hand. “Ready to face your adoring public?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Then follow me, my little kitten.”
“Where?”
“You mentioned something earlier in the evening about my having my way with you.”
“Did I? I don’t remember.”
“It was right after you referred to me as the Stud Machine.”
“Oh,” she said, moving toward the stairwell. “Now I remember.”
“Senator Jenkins!”
Stephen Jenkins turned toward the voice. His painted, vote-getting smile, already applied to his jowly face, was holding up quite nicely. “Hello, Reverend. How wonderful to see you!”
Senator Jenkins and Reverend Sanders exchanged firm handshakes. Sanders, the senator knew, was one of the most influential men in the South. Over the course of the past decade, the religious right had been crucial in Senator Jenkins’ reelection campaigns, and no one delivered their votes like the Reverend Ernest Sanders. If Sanders was on your side, he praised you as a descendant of the Prophets. If he was against you, well, Satan received kinder treatment in his sermons. Luckily for Jenkins, the reverend had backed him. Without his grassroots support, the senator might have lost in the last go-around to that upstart liberal the Democrats had pitted against him.
“Thank you, Stephen. Quite a party, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” Jenkins replied.
Without so much as a head nod or knowing glance, the two men stepped down the long corridor, out of earshot and sight. Their smiles quickly dissolved away. Ernest Sanders leaned toward Jenkins’ ear, his face tight and set. “I’m not very happy about the guest list for this party,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“What the hell is Dr. Harvey Riker doing here?”
“He’s very close to John’s daughter,” Jenkins explained.
“This is not good, Stephen. His being here… it helps give him a certain legitimacy, don’t you think?”
The senator nodded, though he really did not agree. He also knew his old friend John Lowell was a hell of a lot more upset at Sanders being here than Riker. John had made it very clear he did not want anyone to know of his association with the televangelist.
“A lot has been happening lately,” Sanders continued. “We’d best prepare ourselves. I think we should all meet next week.”
“Where?”
“At Bethesda.”
The senator nodded again. “Are you in town for long, Reverend?”
“No,” Sanders replied. “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon. I only came up for the interview and… how should I put it?” He paused, thinking. “To keep the holy coalition together.”
Jenkins felt something cold skitter down his back. “I don’t understand.”
Sanders looked straight at Stephen Jenkins. “Nothing to worry about, Stephen,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Several hours later Harvey Riker spotted Sara standing by herself near the bar.
