Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (latest books to read txt) 📗

His voice was wheezy, sign of a heavy smoker. Porter had reached into his pocket for what was surely a pack of cigarettes, stopping when he noticed the absence of ashtrays.

“Toxics,” said the second man.

Leaning back in his swivel chair, Willie glanced at the second card: “Fred W. Gilmore, Real Estate.”

Willie, too, wore a dark suit, as he always did during the week. They could have been three businessmen discussing insurance rates or stock prices or the real estate market rather than two men calling on a preacher on an unspecified matter involving something toxic.

Miss Shields intervened with coffee, and for a moment the visitors were diverted from poisons and toxics to take sugar and a little milk with their coffee and bite into biscuits up fresh from the commissary. No doubt they were craving to light up, Willie thought, but abstinence would do them some good. Gilmore commented on the beautiful view of the mountains, bringing a smile to the pastor’s face. They returned to business.

“Los Angeles,” said John C. Porter, his heavy face straining to look benign against its natural tendency, “is the only Anglo-Saxon city left in America.” He paused. “Did you know that, Reverend? I want you to think about that. We are the only ones left, the last bastion, the last pure city in America.”

“And why is that?” added Fred W. Gilmore quickly. They’ve rehearsed this, Willie thought, rehearsed it or done it before. “It’s because the people who come to our fair city, who come as a result of what they hear about it—hear about because of the work we do, we, the promoters of this city—are our kind of people: family people, God-fearing people, educated people, working people . . .”

“. . . white people,” said John C. Porter.

Ah, thought Willie.

“Ours is the only city in America not dominated by foreigners,” continued John C. Porter, shifting his portly body in the chair. “The only city where American values—Protestant, white, moral values—still reign. Think of that, Reverend.”

“And we aim to keep it that way,” said Fred W. Gilmore. He was a lean man, knife-faced, with a healthier but meaner look than his partner. “You can help us.”

“I’ll need your help when I’m elected mayor,” said John C. Porter. “I am running and there is no doubt in my mind but that I will win. I have the support.”

It’s coming back, thought Willie: article in the Times about Porter—Midwesterner, Republican, Methodist, if he remembered. There’d been something else in that article, too . . . something about . . . his mind jammed and it wouldn’t come. Typical immigrant to Los Angeles: opinionated, self-educated, intolerant, ready to remake the city into his Chicago or Kansas City image. Probably listens to Bob Shoemaker, not KWEM. No chance to be elected, he thought. Porter’s hat had slipped to the floor as he talked, and he left it lying there, upside down, annoying Willie.

They kept at it for a while, Willie listening, nodding, occasionally glancing at the hat trying to suggest telepathically to Porter to pick it up or at least turn it over. He rarely said anything during these sessions unless asked directly. For him they were confessionals where citizens came to unburden themselves. He could have objected or disagreed for he’d heard some strange things in his time, but that would interfere with the process. They came with a need of some kind. His job was to listen and understand. Open the spigot and see what came gushing out. See if there was room in there for Jesus.

There was never a quid pro quo. The Temple of the Angels and Church of the New Gospel were supported by those who understood the value to the community of the Rev. Mull’s message of love, faith, and salvation in Jesus Christ. Willie listened to all his visitors, not just for their support, but for the ideas they brought. Sermons, even Sunday evening shows, had grown from these meetings. It was not uncommon for him to usher someone out on Tuesday morning and sit down immediately to comb through scripture preparing his Sunday sermon. A seed had been planted and was growing before his visitors even reached the street.

The check written by Fred W. Gilmore was for two hundred dollars, drawn on the Farmers and Merchants National Bank of Los Angeles, Fourth and Main. Willie accepted it humbly as he accepted all donations, as the due of his church. He would endorse it, route it to the business office whence Cal at some point would carry it to Security Trust at Spring and Fifth. It was a modest first-time offering, but its value was enhanced by the words spoken by Gilmore as he placed it in Willie’s hand:

“Reverend, let this be just the beginning of our association. I have to tell you: my whole family gathers around the radio every Sunday evening to hear your splendid broadcasts. You, sir, are God’s gift to our community.”

Willie smiled modestly and shook hands with his visitors. He stared into John C. Porter’s broad Midwestern face one last time, searching. It came to him, finally, as he bid them goodbye at the door: How could he have forgotten?

Porter and Gilmore were the Klan.

♦ ♦ ♦

This would not be one of the days when Willie was at work on his sermon before his visitors left the building. For this, he needed time and reflection. He’d heard of the Klan’s growing presence in Los Angeles, which it made little effort to conceal. Honest citizens like John C. Porter and Fred W. Gilmore never announced they were from the Klan—any more than another visitor would announce he was a Republican or Freemason or Odd Fellow. People came to him as individuals, on personal business. But the Klan expected you to know who they were, and their message didn’t leave much doubt.

It was not the lynching message of the South, for the target wasn’t the handful of Negroes who’d come to Los