Free Diamonds and Cole by Micheal Maxwell Page B

Cole was sure gossip would be plentiful, and there would be much to learn about Allen Christopher.

 
     
     
     
     
    SEVEN

    The one consistent thing Cole kept hearing as he asked around town about the zoning, real estate, and the poorer side of town was reference to “the old preacher out there”. Like the guy said, “When you ain’t got nothin’ you got nothin’ to lose.” Cole was pretty sure he knew where to find the preacher people kept referring to. Hopefully, he knew something that would shed some light on Malcor.
    The gravel’s crunch under the tires made a throaty sound as Cole pulled into the parking lot of the Friendly Tabernacle. Except for the splotches of graffiti paint-over, it looked just like he remembered. A remnant of World War II, the jumbo Quonset hut was a strange corrugated metal building—a perfect half dome with a flat front and back, like someone cut a tin can in half long ways and stuck it in the ground. The sign in the front sputtered and crackled its neon message, JESUS SAVES. A worn, faded canvas banner proclaimed REVIVAL NIGHTLY.
    At one time, this odd little building was the neighborhood movie theater, home to several thousand Dust Bowl refugees. The Del Rio showed cowboy serials, pre-War “B” romances, and Buck Rogers-style science fiction. That was before the city passed an ordinance declaring the little gravel parking lot too small for the 200-seat tin movie palace. The fact that most people walked to the Del Rio was of little consequence to the city fathers, who didn’t like the looks of the “Okie firetrap” anyway.
    Then Edwin Thessalonians Bates came back to town. The little Quonset hut had sat empty for three years when the traveling Evangelist saw a “For Sale” sign nailed to the front door. To him it was a sign from God and, upon this rock, Brother Bates was going to build his church. Not one to take “no” for an answer and certainly not one to hesitate to speak on behalf of the Almighty in His absence, Brother Bates struck quite a deal: Not only did he get the building for no money down (30 years before infomercials) but upon assuring the owner his “Eternal real estate holdings” would be determined by the outcome of the transaction, there was also to be no payment due for six months. Nearly 40 years later, E. T. Bates was the unofficial mayor of “the poor side of town.”
    Tonight, about a dozen cars occupied the lot. At the rear of the lot, under the single light bulb that glowed over the back door, sat a red 10-year-old Cadillac. Brother Bates would be present for the services this evening. The gravel crunched underfoot, and Cole made his way to the front, remembering years before when his grandmother would take him to her church as if it were St. Peter’s in Rome. Of course, she would have never compared this sanctified ground to “the dwelling place of the Scarlet Woman.” Nevertheless, she had puffed out her bountiful chest, lodged her well-worn Bible under her arm, and led them in to wait upon the Lord.
    “Cole, get ready for a blessing!” she had told him. “The fire is falling, and His Spirit has come to dwell in this place! Blessed be the name of the Lord! Hallelujah!”— before they even got out of the parking lot.
    The front of the tabernacle still sported poster boxes from the old Del Rio. Now instead of “Cattle Queen of Montana” and “Lady of New Orleans” one sheets, there were hand-lettered butcher paper signs reading:
    Services Nightly 7:00
    Lay Your Needs Before the Lord!
    Miracles! Healing! Prophetic Messages!
    Edwin T. Bates, Evangelist
    Not much had changed.
    The lobby still had the thick red carpet of the Del Rio, now threadbare in spots. Silver duct tape held some of the seams together, and dark sections told the tale of a leaking roof. The snack bar now displayed tapes, books, and pamphlets by the featured Evangelist. Cole wondered if Guinness had a record for the longest running nightly revival.
    “Good evening,”