The Final Adversary (8 page)

He grinned and embraced her. “Good thing it’s church you’re going to. I wouldn’t let such a good-looking woman go anywhere else. Some handsome young fellow might run off with you!”

“Don’t be silly!”

He kissed her hard. “Now, tell Andy I want him to keep an eye on you—for my protection,” he teased.

Lola laughed, but he had succeeded in changing her mood. As she left the room, he grabbed his coat, his mind on his oldest son, not the presidential candidates.

****

Lola was waiting in the foyer when Andy rushed into the house at a quarter of six. “Good! You’re ready,” he said. “Say, you look great!” He grinned. “Should be a good meeting!”

Lola was wearing a simple suit of light gray wool, a blouse of dark green silk, and a small hat that made her large dark eyes seem even larger. She had no patience with the current fashions that New York women had taken to. The ridiculous bustle made its wearers look as if they were carrying shelves concealed under the backs of their skirts. This horrible style was going out, but the “sheath gown” was coming in. This was simply a tube made of cloth that reached from the hips to the shoe tops. “It looks like a gun barrel!” Lola had told one of her friends. The women who did wear them found they could take steps no more than six inches, which is why they soon were called “hobble skirts.”

“We’d better hurry, Andy,” she said. “We’ll be lucky to get a seat in the auditorium.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Andy responded cheerfully. “I’ve got a little surprise for you.” He refused to elaborate, but she liked his cheery mood. When they arrived at the auditorium, he led her into the expansive building, and as she had anticipated, it was already filled to overflowing.

“I expect we’ll have to stand up,” she said, glancing over the packed crowd.

“Come along,” he grinned. Lola followed him, wondering what he was up to. She gasped when he led her down the long aisles to the front and handed a ticket to an attendant who was standing at the foot of the platform. He looked at the
ticket, smiled and said, “This way, please,” walking up to the seats on the next to last row of the platform.

“Andy, how did you ever manage such a thing?” Lola demanded.

“Why, I was on the committee that did the groundwork for Mr. Moody’s visit,” he said. “When I met him, he recognized my name. Wanted to know if I was any relation to Mark Winslow—the one who’d given so liberally to Moody Bible College in Chicago. Well, I lost no time assuring him that I was the son of that illustrious man, and he insisted that I sit on the platform.”

“How nice!” Lola said with a pleased smile. “I’m sorry your father couldn’t be here, but I think he’ll come tomorrow. You know how much he admires Mr. Moody.”

After about half an hour Andy exclaimed, “There he is! There’s Mr. Moody! Come on!”

“Andy, no!”

“Sure, he said he wanted to meet Dad, but he’ll have to be satisfied with you.”

Lola had no choice, so she followed Andy until they were directly in front of the famous evangelist. “Good to see you, Mr. Moody,” Andy said. “My father was unable to be here, but I’d like you to meet my mother.”

Mr. Moody was not an impressive man, Lola noted. Short and thick-set, with a full graying beard, kind brown eyes, alert and clear. His grammar wasn’t the best, but there was none of the arrogance sometimes found in famous people.

He smiled at her with a genuine air of pleasure.

“Mrs. Winslow,” he said in a pleasant tenor voice, “I have written your husband several times, thanking him for his generous support of our Bible college, and it gives me much pleasure to thank you personally.”

“Oh, Mr. Moody,” Lola replied, awed by the opportunity to meet him, “it’s been little enough, but we pray for you every day.”

“Thank you,” Moody said, then he gave her a steady look,
and after a moment’s silence asked, “Is there anything I can pray with you about, Mrs. Winslow?”

Lola dropped her eyes, then raised them, tears ready to spill over. “We have a son who is in prison, Mr. Moody.”

Moody considered her, then in a conversational tone began to pray. It was as though he were addressing a close personal friend, with none of the wordy ministerial prayers often heard. “Dear Father, it is your joy to reclaim prodigal sons. This, thy handmaiden, and her companion are your faithful servants. I ask that you bring their son back from the depths of sin and lead him to the cross. Save him, Lord, for we ask this in the name of Jesus Christ, the friend of sinners.”

Unable to see Moody clearly through her tears, she whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Moody.”

“I believe God has begun His work in your boy. I believe he will soon be set free,” the evangelist said.

“Oh, thank you,” she said again, then took Andy’s arm as they returned to their seats.

“That was wonderful, Mother!”

Lola smiled, her heart rejoicing at the words echoing in her mind:
I believe he will soon be set free.
Though the service was wonderful, she scarcely heard Ira Sankey, the great musician, sing, or Moody’s powerful message as the Spirit of God moved in the hearts of people. She could only think of Barney.

On the way home as Andy talked about the sermon, his mother interrupted him. “Andy, tell me again about the night you went to find the man who shot Adams.”

Surprised, Andy said, “Why, Mother, I told you about that before.” But at her insistence, he recounted the details again.

When he finished Lola asked, “About this girl, Katie—you thought she knew something?”

“I thought so at the time, but now I don’t know. Those people are suspicious of anyone like us.”

“Andy, I’m sure you were on the track of something,” Lola said quietly. She sat there thinking hard, and then added, “I
think God has brought us back to New York to help your brother.”

“Why, Mother, Dad’s paid out a fortune to private detectives! They tried everything.”

Lola smiled at him. “But Barney’s not their son.”

That night long after she went to bed, she kept hearing the words:
I believe he will soon be set free.
A voice whispered that Moody had meant that Barney would be saved—be free from sin. But Lola shook her head fiercely. “No, Lord! Save him
and
deliver him from prison!”

****

Katie came out of her drunken stupor slowly. Someone was shouting at her and slapping her face, but she could not tell who it was. Finally she forced her eyes open, and saw the man standing over her.

“All right . . . Tony,” she whispered. “I’m awake.”

“You’re drunk, that’s what you are!” Barone pulled her from the bed to her feet and held her up, or she would have collapsed. Cursing, he reached over with one hand and grabbed a pitcher of water and doused it over her head. “I told you to lay off the booze!”

Gasping and sputtering, Katie wiped her face as she tried to speak, but the raw gin had thickened her tongue. “I—just had a little drink to—help me get ready!”

“Liar!” Barone shoved her back on the bed and picked up an empty bottle from the floor. “You drank the whole quart!” He tossed the bottle at the rumpled figure. She had been the biggest disappointment he’d had with women. Looks, voice, ability—she’d had it all, but in less than a month it had become apparent that she couldn’t tolerate alcohol. She’d have one drink, another—then drink until she passed out. “Worse drunk I ever saw!” he’d told his friends. “She’ll have to lay off the booze.”

But Katie couldn’t do that. She lived in a world where liquor was more plentiful than water, and there was always
someone ready to buy her a drink, no matter how hard Tony Barone tried to watch her. Now looking down on her, he said, “I’ve had it with you, Katie. You know who was coming to hear you sing tonight? Lindsey Black, that’s who! The biggest producer in this town! I worked on him for weeks. Now he’s coming and you can’t even stand up!”

“I—I can sing, Tony!” Katie said. She struggled to her feet, swaying. “Just—give me—a few minutes!”

“I’ll give you
nothing,
you drunk!” Barone raged. “You’re
through
singing. You can hustle like the rest of the girls.”

“No! I can’t do that!” Katie cried. She reached for him. “Tony, you said you loved me, that we’d get married!”

He laughed harshly. “Think I’d marry a drunk like you?”

“You—you gave me my first drink, Tony!”

“Everybody gets their first drink from somebody,” he said callously. “Get your stuff together. I don’t want you in my apartment. You can have one of the rooms with the other girls.”

Katie stared at him in unbelief. “I can’t do that!”

“Do it or get out!” Barone said. He stalked away, then stopped. “If you’re in here when I get back, you’ll wish you were gone!”

The door slammed, and Katie sank down on the bed, shaking. Confused and terrified, she slowly began to dress, for she knew Barone meant what he said.
I’ll clean up, go away and sober up for a couple of days,
she thought.
Then Tony’ll take me back.

An hour later she left the saloon, but her plan failed almost at once. A man she knew slightly stopped her on the street. “Well, this is my lucky day! I was going to eat alone, but if you’d join me, Katie, I’d be favored.”

She hesitated, then nodded. He took her to an expensive restaurant, and during the meal she drank several glasses of wine. Afterward, they went dancing, and soon she was drunk again. The next morning she woke up in a room she didn’t
recognize. She dressed and left, passing the room clerk on the way. “Come back soon, dearie,” he called after her, smirking.

The sharp autumn wind bit her face as she moved along the gray sidewalk. For hours she walked the streets, and not knowing what else to do, made her way back to Barone’s place. His manager, Pete Shuffield, met her as she came through the door. “Tony ain’t here, Katie,” he said. “But he said to tell you nothin’s changed. Either start hustlin’ at the bar or clear out. Sorry, but that’s the way it is,” he shrugged. “I put all your stuff in the room at the end of the hall.”

Katie numbly climbed the stairs and stood in front of the door. She knew what it meant—she would be “one of Tony’s girls,” a common prostitute. Slowly she opened the door and entered, packed her one suitcase, and left. She tried to think back to the day she had come to Tony’s place, but the memory was too painful. She found a cheap room in a dilapidated rooming house, and went out to look for work.

Times were hard in the country, the slums of New York stark evidence of the poverty. Many had come from the country seeking work, but there was none. Katie returned to the factory where she had worked before going to Barone, and found it closed and abandoned. She could not hold back the tears as she gazed at the battened-down windows, the sullen ghostly old brick building. She had always thought she could go back to her former job. Now that, too, was gone.

For two weeks she walked the streets seeking work, and every night she ended up getting drunk. At first it was just a few drinks “to go to sleep,” she told herself. But as things got more desperate, she began to drink during the day. Finally she was spending most of her time in a stupor. Her money ran out the third week, and it was then she secured a job waiting on tables at a cafe in Brooklyn. The hours were long and the pay low, and she was forced to find a cheaper room—this time over a bar down the street. The small, dark, vermin-infested place was overrun with rats. It was frightening, but Katie had no choice.

She worked from noon until ten, and as soon as she left work, she usually went to her room and began drinking. Men of the lowest sort in the district constantly stalked her, but she managed to elude them. The uncouth owner of the cafe, Clyde Posten, tried to force himself on her, but gave up with a curse when she fought him off. He didn’t fire her, because she was cheap reliable help, but he made things as difficult as he could.

She saw a few people from Barone’s place, but never Tony. One of the bar girls named Nellie had advised her to return. “It’s better than working your arms off here,” she had said. But Katie had resisted.

One September night, Katie came out of the cafe, exhausted and discouraged. She stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of gin, then went home and began to drink. She was halfway through the bottle when a knock at her door aroused her. “Who is it?” she asked, not getting off the bed. It was not uncommon for one of the men who lived in the neighborhood to come and try to get her to go out with him, and she assumed it was one of these.

But it was a woman’s voice. “My name is Winslow. May I talk to you, Miss Sullivan?”

Katie stood to her feet and brushed her hair from her face. She was groggy and her hand was unsteady as she slipped the bolt on her door. “What’s that you say?” she asked, her tongue thick from the liquor. She peered out into the dark hallway, unable to see the features of the woman who stood there. “Who are you?”

“We met once, Miss Sullivan. I’m Barney Winslow’s mother.”

“Barney?” Katie tried to think, and a memory came back to her. “Yes, I remember Barney.” She hesitated, then shrugged. “You can come in if you want to.” She turned up the low burning light in the lamp on the table, then said, “You want to sit down?”

Lola took the only chair in the room, saying, “Thank you.”
She showed no sign of the disgust that filled her at the foul-smelling room, for she was actually more shocked at the change in Katie Sullivan.

She had thought of her often, and now to see the girl’s dirty face and unkempt, filthy hair shocked her. Katie had changed so greatly that Lola would never have known her.

“I know you’re wondering why I’ve come to see you,” she began.

“How’d you find me?”

“I went to Mr. Barone’s place. A young woman named Nellie told me where you lived.” Lola hesitated, then plunged in. “I need your help, Miss Sullivan. I don’t think Barney shot that man, and I’m going to prove it.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Katie said thickly. She picked up the bottle, took a drink from it, then shook her head. “It was a long time ago.”

“My younger son, Andy, came to see you after it happened. Do you remember that?”