Gone to Glory Read online

  “I’m having dinner,” he said. He didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.

  “The roast beef, isn’t it, sir?” Jimmy said.

  Traveler nodded rather than risk hearing the stranger inside him again.

  One of the men said, “You’re leaving.”

  “One way or another,” his twin added.

  Chair legs screeched on the tile as Traveler pushed back from the table. Howe’s men immediately eased away from each other so they could come at him from two sides if necessary. Even so, Traveler felt invulnerable, the same kind of feeling he’d had during games, when pain went unnoticed for the moment.

  He rose to his feet slowly, being careful to keep the pair in front of him and the waiter at his back.

  The desk clerk must have sensed what was about to happen. Words rushed out of his mouth. “You wouldn’t want an old man like Jimmy to lose his job, would you?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Jimmy said.

  “We’re church security,” one of the men said. “We can get uniformed police here to back us up if necessary.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Nothing like that. We’re here to jog your memory about minding your own business. That means places like the Semloh are off-limits for the moment.”

  “Why aren’t the uniforms here to tell me that themselves?”

  “Because you have friends in high places.” Both men smiled, more to show their teeth than anything else.

  12

  Outside, the on-again, off-again thunderheads had solidified into a storm front that had brought on an early darkness. Along State Street lights were ablaze, though it was only five in the afternoon.

  For a moment Traveler thought of taking shelter from the rain in the Era Antique Shop, which was less than a block from the Semloh. The shop owner kept a pool table in the back for regulars. Although Traveler didn’t qualify on that point, he had played a few games of nine-ball while negotiating to have shoplifting charges dropped against Bill and Charlie, both of whom thought of the shop as their own private preserve. When all else failed, they said, donations to the Church of the True Prophet were always to be found at the Era.

  Since Traveler didn’t know how accounts stood at the moment, he turned in the other direction, jogging up State to First South, where he crossed against the light and continued west toward Main Street. Halfway along the block a covered phone booth, one of the few left in town, looked inviting until he realized two street people had already taken up residence. There was a time when the police had kept Salt Lake’s derelicts out of sight on the west side of town.

  Traveler shifted gears, moving up to a run. But it was wasted effort. He was soaked by the time he reached the Hotel Utah.

  Coming directly from the Semloh made the Hotel Utah all the more impressive. Once it had been the finest inn between Denver and the Coast. Even now, closed for religious conversion, its ten stories of white terra-cotta brick were like a beacon in the gloom. In better times the huge beehive on top would have been etched in neon. At the moment, only the penthouse floor was fully lighted. But then it was the traditional residence of church presidents, living prophets whose power descended directly from Joseph Smith.

  Traveler bypassed the front entrance to take shelter beneath the overhanging roof that led to the parking garage. The place looked deserted, an impression that lasted only a few seconds before security men appeared out of nowhere to surround him.

  “I’d like to see Willis Tanner,” he said, noticing for the first time that remote TV cameras had been tracking him.

  The only answer he got was grim looks and the glimpse of an Uzi. Officially, the hotel was still closed for remodeling.

  “I’m a friend of his,” Traveler clarified. “Moroni Traveler.”

  His name prompted scowls of disbelief.

  Slowly, so as not to alarm anyone, he took out his wallet and produced a soggy business card.

  One of the security men took hold of it by the edges as though fearing contamination. He read at arm’s length before stepping into a glass booth that had once housed parking attendants. From there he continued to watch Traveler while using the phone.

  Traveler smiled into the nearest camera and made no sudden moves. Church security, especially in the vicinity of the living prophet, surpassed the Secret Service.

  The man in the booth nodded once, hung up the phone, and rejoined his companions. “Mr. Tanner will be down in a minute. You’re to wait here.”

  Traveler marked time by studying his surroundings. Even the garage area had been constructed of ornate tile, polished brick, and scrollwork cornices, trademarks of the French-Classical style that had been in vogue when the church built the hotel in 1911. In those days Mormon leaders were pragmatists. They knew hotels needed guests, and since guests were mostly out-of-state Gentiles who drank, a bar was installed. But as church fortunes increased, pragmatism gave way to zeal. Liquor was banned, forcing Gentiles to flee to Holiday Inns, Marriotts, and Sheratons. Their loss became the excuse to turn the Hotel Utah into another LDS office building.

  The side door opened and Willis Tanner appeared. As soon as he saw Traveler he grinned and ran a freckled hand through his red crew cut. “It’s all right. I know him. His name really is Moroni, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. The fact is, Mo, you look half drowned.”

  The security men faded back into their hiding places, but the cameras continued their programmed search.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?” Traveler asked.

  “You’re not supposed to know I’m here.”

  “You shouldn’t have told me, then.”

  Tanner’s eyes rolled, more or less in the direction of one of the cameras. Quite deliberately, Traveler stared down at his feet, which were standing in a puddle of his own making.

  “I can see that you’re cold and wet, Mo. But I’ve got my orders. No Gentiles inside during the remodeling.”

  “For Christ’s sake. We’ve known each other since junior high school.”

  “Exactly. And you still take the Lord’s name in vain.”‘

  “I take it there are microphones here too, not just cameras.”

  “Why would you say something like that?” Tannermsaid.

  “I need your help, Willis.”

  “Officially?” His eyes started toward a camera before he caught himself. The effort triggered a squint. It had been a sign of stress with him since childhood, a remnant of uncorrected astigmatism.

  Traveler said, “Do you remember the time my father took us to see the Bees for my birthday? At Derks Field.”

  Tanner sighed with what sounded like relief. His squint eased somewhat.

  “Pepper Dalton hit the winning home run,” Traveler added. “The only one he ever hit in his life.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Do you remember or not?”

  “Sure. So what?”

  “Pepper’s in trouble.”

  “Like I said before, Mo, so what?”

  “He’s in jail on suspicion of murder.”

  Tanner held out his hands as if to separate himself from Traveler. Squinting puckered half his face. “That’s a civil matter.”

  “He was your favorite player, too.”

  “I’m too old to play games.” With that, Tanner turned and pushed through the side door.

  Traveler might have been tempted to follow if the security men hadn’t reappeared. He shook his head at them, a signal of truce, not surrender, and then sprinted back to the Chester Building.

  A crowd was there ahead of him: Bill, once again wearing his sandwich board, and Charlie, plus half a dozen West Temple winos dressed in dilapidated clothes that smelled vaguely like wet fur.

  One of the derelicts, the only one not huddled around the cigar stand’s eternal flame, thrust a p
lastic cup of hot coffee into Traveler’s hand the moment he cleared the revolving door.

  “Compliments of the house,” the man said.

  Barney Chester waved from behind the counter, where he was dispensing cheer. When Traveler raised his cup in response, the wine fumes became noticeable. Judging by the smell, Barney had upgraded from jug wine. Traveler sipped, confirmed the assessment, then headed for the elevator.

  Bill broke free of the crowd to intercept him in front of the grillwork door. Rain had disintegrated the paper message attached to his sandwich board until only the word tithing was recognizable.

  Nephi Bates retreated into his cage, closing the gate behind him.

  Bill pointed at him and said, “There can only be one true prophet. And I am he.”

  “‘Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sllleep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves,’” Bates fired back.

  As one, the winos, led by Charlie Redwine, left the flame to cluster around the elevator.

  Traveler took a deep breath. The smell of wine was overpowering. “Open up, Nephi. I don’t feel like walking up three flights.”

  Nephi shook his head.

  “Dammit.” Traveler rattled the grillwork.

  Next to him, Charlie began blowing his used, wine­soaked breath into the elevator. The winos mimicked him. Immediately, Bates retreated to the back of the cage, his face pinched by the sinful air he was being forced to breathe.

  “Rejoice,” Bill said. “This isn’t your everyday transgression.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Traveler asked.

  Bill held his cup aloft. “No more Ripple, Moroni. No more Thunderbird. That’s our motto from now on.”

  “No more Ripple,” the winos chorused.

  Traveler pulled at the collar of his wet shirt.

  “It’s a new city ordinance,” Bill said. “Cheap wines have been removed from all downtown liquor stores. The city fathers are trying to rid themselves of undesirables like us. Simple people who want only to warm themselves with drink.”

  “So what are you drinking?” Traveler asked.

  “French claret, thanks to Barney.”

  Nephi Bates lunged against the elevator door, his hands grasping the grillwork so hard his knuckles went white. The look on his face reminded Traveler of a prisoner doing hard time. “I remember the good old days.” His voice trembled. “Before civil rights ruined this country. When police ran people like you out of town. If you tried to come back, they’d break your legs.”

  “Give me Thunderbird or give me death,” Charlie said.

  “Thunderbird,” one wino picked up, then another. They shook their fists at Nephi.

  “I think you’d better take me up,” Traveler said to the elevator operator.

  The look on Nephi’s face was one of relief, maybe even appreciation, as he rushed to open the door. The moment Traveler stepped inside, Nephi slammed the gate shut and rammed home the start lever. The elevator mechanism bucked once before taking hold.

  When they stopped at the third floor, Nephi made no move to let Traveler out. Instead, he folded his arms across his narrow chest and glared. His look of gratitude, if that was what it had been, had given way to scorn.

  “‘And many false prophets shall arise, and shall deceive many,’” he said.

  Traveler slid open the door himself and stepped out onto the marble hallway. “If all men were like Moroni,” he dredged from long-ago Sunday school, “‘the very powers of hell would have been shaken forever.’”

  13

  The office was empty and dark, with no sign of Martin’s having returned. Traveler switched on the overhead light, which consisted of a pair of fluorescent tubes that blinked but didn’t catch hold. He worked the switch again but the flickering continued.

  Since the ceilings in the Chester Building were ten feet high, he dragged a chair out from behind his desk and stood on it, fiddling with the murky cylinders until they finally lit up. Even then, they failed to dispel the storm’s gloomy half-light. Or maybe it was Traveler’s mood, which didn’t improve when he checked the coat rack where he’d hung his Levis and shirt earlier. They were as damp as ever. That meant no change of clothes until he got home.

  The thought made him squirm. His sport coat had a long way to go before it would be dry enough to call damp. On top of that, its herringbone tweed smelled more like a sea creature than a sheep.

  Traveler stripped it off and used it to mop the chair seat before rolling the chair back behind the desk. When he sat down his shirt and trousers stuck coldly to him.

  “If you catch pneumonia,” he said, directing the words at Martin’s desk, “twenty-five dollars a day won’t pay the hospital bills.”

  In his mind’s eye he saw his father nodding agreement.

  “You’re damn right. Anyone with sense would go home and take a hot bath.”

  Ignoring the advice, Traveler looked up the area code or Orange, California. Once he had it, he called Information and got the number for Charles Cecil. A woman answered.

  “Mrs. Cecil?”

  “Yes.” Her tone was suspicious.

  “I’m looking for the Charles Cecil who used to play center field for the Salt Lake City Bees.”

  “That would be my husband, all right.” Suspicion had given way to caution. “But he can’t come to the phone right now.”

  “I’m a friend of Pepper Dalton’s.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. Warmth came into her voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “Pepper’s in trouble.”

  “What kind?”

  As soon as Traveler explained she said, “I know my husband would want to help. But I don’t understand what it is he could do.”

  Traveler wasn’t exactly sure himself. But Cecil was the only member of the old Bees that both Hap and Pepper had kept in touch with over the years.

  “What about you, Mrs. Cecil? Do you know Pepper personally?”

  “Certainly. He’s been a good friend. Chuck and I owe him a lot. He was the one who got my husband interested in baseball cards.”

  Traveler was about to ask for an explanation when she added, “That’s how my husband makes his living now. He sells and trades baseball cards, things like that. At this moment he’s attending a card convention in Baltimore. I’m sure he’d like to hear from you. He’s at the Hotel Stratford, room three-oh-three-four.”

  He cradled the phone and sat staring at it, wondering if he should spend money on another long-distance call.

  Money he might never get back. At the same time, part of him knew such speculation was a waste of time. He had no choice in the matter. Pepper Dalton was waiting; he had to be paid back for a birthday present Traveler had never forgotten.

  He called Baltimore, got no answer from Chuck Cecil’s room, and left a message saying he was a friend of Pepper’s.

  The moment he hung up the phone rang.

  “Mo, it’s Willis. Have you had your office swept recently?”

  Knowing Tanner, the reference involved electronic bugs, not cleanliness.

  “I’m calling from a phone booth,” Tanner added. “I had to walk blocks to find one I knew was safe.”

  “You’re paranoid, Willis.”

  “I want to help Pepper.”

  “Come on over and we’ll talk.”

  “Not there. Someone might see me.”

  “Jesus Christ. When you say things like that, you make me think Nephi Bates really is a spy.”

  “There’s no need to take the Lord’s name in vain.”

  Traveler clenched his teeth.

  “I’ll meet you for dinner,” Willis said.

  “Where?”

  “Joe Vincent’s.”

  Traveler swallowed another blasphemy. Vincent’s was a bar first, a restaurant second. It was
on Second South at the corner of Regent Street, known years ago as Commercial Street because of the prostitution carried on there. Tanner’s presence in such a place was akin to heresy.

  14

  There was only one place to sit in Joe Vincent’s, at the bar. Willis Tanner perched there like a bird on a power line, waiting for the inevitable surge of voltage that would kill him.

  “Why did you pick this place?” Traveler asked.

  Tanner scrunched his shoulders, at the same time readjusting himself on the bar stool until he was facing Traveler. “I’ve heard you and your father talking about it for years.”

  “You knew what to expect, then.”

  Tanner’s squint worsened, closing one eye altogether. The other blinked, freeing a tear. Traveler hoped it was only a reaction to the haze of cigarette smoke.

  “It doesn’t pay to set patterns or go where people expect to find you,” Tanner said.

  Traveler looked around. Every stool at the long, chest-high bar was filled. Beer drinkers flanked them on either side.

  “Mormon spies wouldn’t defy the Word of Wisdom,” he said.

  Tanner leaned forward until his head was only inches away. “Never underestimate church security, Mo.”

  He was about to say more when the bartender brought their order, prime rib sandwiches. Usually, Traveler had a draft beer with his. Tonight, in deference to Tanner, he’d settled for ginger ale.

  Tanner sampled his sandwich and made a face. “It tastes like cigarettes. Everything in here does.” He pinched his nostrils between a thumb and forefinger and breathed through his mouth, as if that might lessen his sin. “Now, what do you want from me?”

  “Do you remember that day Martin took us to see the Bees on my birthday? The day Pepper Dalton hit the home run?”

  “Come on, Mo. You can cut the sales pitch. I already said I wanted to help. I have to be careful about it, that’s all.”

  “How far are you willing to go?”