“Are you going to fire someone?” I asked.
He looked up. “Huh?”
“Georgia says if you’re going to fire someone, she’s taking a sick day.”
“I’m not going to fire anyone. That’s ridiculous.”
“She says you threw something.”
“Bullshit.” He paused. “I did kick the wastebasket when I saw the shit about the holy rings.”
“Tell me about the holy rings. Then I’ll give the wastebasket another ritual kick and go to work. I’ve got sixteen billion things to do today, including learning two tunes for that Gotta Wanna session. A wastebasket field goal might be just the thing to get me jump-started.”
Hugh went back to rubbing his temples. “I thought this might happen, I knew he had it in him, but I never expected anything quite this . . . this grand. But you know what they say—go big or go home.”
“No fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
“You will, Jamie, you will.”
I parked my butt on the corner of his desk.
“Every morning I watch the six AM news while I do my crunches and pedal the stationary bike, okay? Mostly because watching the weather chick has its own aerobic benefits. And this morning I saw an ad for something besides magic wrinkle creams and Time-Warner golden oldie collections. I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t, fucking, believe it. At the same time I could.” He laughed then, not a this-is-funny laugh but an I-can’t-fucking-believe-it laugh. “So I turn off the idiot box and investigate further on the Internet.”
I started around his desk but he held up a hand to stop me. “First I have to ask you if you’ll go on a man-date with me, Jamie. To see someone who has—after a couple of false starts—finally realized his destiny.”
“Sure, I guess so. As long as it isn’t a Justin Bieber concert. I’m a little long in the tooth for the Bieb.”
“Oh, this is much better than the Bieb. Take a look. Just don’t let it burn your eyes.”
I walked around the desk and met my fifth business for the third time. The first thing I noticed was the hokey hypnotist’s stare. His hands were spread to either side of his face, and he was wearing a thick gold band on the third finger of each.
It was a poster on a website headed PASTOR C. DANNY JACOBS HEALING REVIVAL TOUR 2008.
OLD-TIME TENT REVIVAL!
JUNE 13–15
NORRIS COUNTY FAIRGROUNDS
20 Miles East of Denver
FEATURING FORMER “SOUL SINGER” AL STAMPER
FEATURING THE GOSPEL ROBINS, WITH
DEVINA ROBINSON
***AND***
EVANGELIST C. DANNY JACOBS
AS SEEN ON THE DANNY JACOBS HOUR
OF HEALING GOSPEL POWER
RENEW YOUR SOUL THROUGH SONG
REFRESH YOUR FAITH THROUGH HEALING
THRILL TO THE STORY OF THE HOLY RINGS,
TOLD AS ONLY PASTOR DANNY CAN!
“Bring hither the poor, and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind; compel them to come in, that my house may be filled.” Luke 14:21 and 23.
WITNESS GOD’S POWER TO CHANGE
YOUR LIFE!
FRIDAY 13TH: 7 PM
SATURDAY 14TH: 2 PM and 7 PM
SUNDAY 15TH: 2 PM and 7 PM
GOD SPEAKS SOFTLY (1 KINGS 19:12)
GOD HEALS LIKE LIGHTNING (MATTHEW 24:27)
COME ONE!
COME ALL!
BE RENEWED!
At the bottom was a photo of a boy throwing away his crutches while a congregation stood watching with expressions of joyous awe. The caption below the photo read Robert Rivard, healed of MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY 5/30/07, St. Louis, Mo.
I was stunned, the way a person would be, I suppose, if he caught sight of an old friend who has been reported dead or arrested for committing a serious crime. Yet part of me—the changed part, the healed part—wasn’t surprised. That part of me had been waiting for this all along.
Hugh laughed and said, “Man, you look like a bird flew into your mouth and you swallowed it.” Then he spoke aloud the only coherent thought I had in my brain at that moment. “Looks like the Rev’s up to his old tricks.”
“Yes,” I said, then pointed at the reference to the Book of Matthew. “But that verse isn’t about healing.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I never knew you were a Bible scholar.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” I said, “because we never talk about him. But I knew Charlie Jacobs long before Tulsa. When I was a little boy, he was the minister at our church. It was his first pastoral job, and I would have guessed it was his last. Until now.”
His smile went away. “You’re shitting me! How old was he, eighteen?”
“I think around twenty-five. I was six or seven.”
“Was he healing people back then?”
“Not at all.” Except for my brother Con, that was. “In those days he was straight-up Methodist—you know, Welch’s grape juice at communion instead of wine. Everyone liked him.” At least until the Terrible Sermon. “He quit after he lost his wife and son in a road accident.”
“The Rev was married? He had a kid?”
“Yes.”
Hugh considered. “So he’s actually got a right to at least one of those wedding rings—if they are wedding rings. Which I doubt. Look at this.”
He went to the band at the top of the website page, put the cursor on MIRACLE TESTIMONY, and clicked. The screen now showed a line of YouTube videos. There were at least a dozen.
“Hugh, if you want to go see Charlie Jacobs, I’m happy to tag along, but I really don’t have time to discuss him this morning.”
He regarded me closely. “You don’t look like someone who swallowed a bird. You look like somebody gave you a hard punch to the gut. Look at this one vid, and I’ll let you go.”
Halfway down was the boy from the poster. When Hugh clicked on it, I saw the clip, which was only a little over a minute long, had racked up better than a hundred thousand views. Not quite viral, but close.
When the picture started to move, someone shoved a microphone with KSDK on it into Robert Rivard’s face. An unseen woman said, “Describe what happened when this so-called healing took place, Bobby.”
“Well, ma’am,” Bobby said, “when he grabbed on my head, I could feel the holy wedding rings on the sides, right here.” He indicated his temples. “I heard a snap, like a stick of kin’lin wood. I might have passed out for a second or two. Then this . . . I don’t know . . . warmth went down my legs . . . and . . .” The boy began to weep. “And I could stand on em. I could walk! I was healed! God bless Pastor Danny!”
Hugh sat back. “I haven’t watched all the other testimonials, but the ones I have watched are pretty much the same. Remind you of anything?”
“Maybe,” I said. Cautiously. “What about you?”
We had never discussed the favor “the Rev” had done for Hugh—a favor big enough to cause the boss of the Wolfjaw Ranch to hire a barely straight heroin addict on the basis of a phone call.
“Not while you’re pressed for time. What are you doing for lunch?”
“Ordering in pizza. After the c&w chick exits, there’s a guy from Longmont . . . sheet says he’s ‘a baritone interpreter of popular song’ . . .”
Hugh looked blank for a moment, then slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Oh my God, is it George Damon?”
“Yeah, that’s the name.”
“Christ, I thought that sucker was dead. It’s been years—before your time. The first record he made with us was Damon Does Gershwin. Long before CDs this was, although eight-tracks might have been around. Every song, and I mean every fucking song, sounded like Kate Smith singing ‘God Bless America.’ Let Mookie handle him. They go back. If the Mookster screws up, you can fix it in the mix.”