Mean Woman Blues

it for envy. Even if you knew it to be God’s truth.
    God’s truth
. How had that phrase come into his mind? God had put it there. He knew that because he was good at recognizing that very thing— God’s truth.
    So he was better than the other preacher. That was a given. Why was God being so insistent with him? He turned it over in his mind a couple of times, knowing that the rest would unfold in its own good time, exactly as God intended and no other way.
    He knew that God did not intend him to become a televangelist. He couldn’t have said how he knew, but he knew it quite well, perhaps because it was an anticlimactic idea. Daddy had been a preacher and he had been a politician and he had been a soldier for justice. Deep in his heart he was still a preacher, but he knew that that was only the core of God’s plan for him. His mission was a much bigger one.
    He forgot about the revelation of the televangelist— to the extent that it was one— until a week or so later when he was watching a talk show.
This guy is terrible
, he thought.
I could do that.
    And in a split second he had it: He understood how a talk-show host could spread the word of God (though of course he never need mention the three-letter word). And, perhaps not coincidentally, he saw how such a host could also be a politician and a soldier for justice.
    He turned off the television, went out to get some yellow pads, brought them back to his nondescript motel room, and began to fill them up with the ideas that now flowed out of him like a sacred river.
    He filled up two of the pads and then made himself a checklist of the things he had to do and the order he had to do them in. First on the list was call Rosemarie Owens. He couldn’t do another thing until he did because she held the purse strings.
    Rosemarie had all the money in the world, thanks to him. Thanks to Errol Jacomine and no one else. Not only that, she was family.
    And fortunately the connection between them had never been publicly made, probably because Rosemarie had the money and clout to dissociate herself from him. Still, the FBI knew, and the Devil-Bitch knew. No matter how much Rosemarie wanted to help him— which was probably not at all— her hands might very well be tied. Her phones were probably tapped, and they very likely watched her house as well. Or did he give himself too much credit?
    The media had made him into a monster (with the help of Detective Devil-Bitch Langdon), but maybe he was small potatoes to people with real crooks to catch. He’d have to proceed carefully.
    When he judged enough time had passed, he fired up his car, checked it for any burnt-out lights or other excuses for cops to stop it, and drove to Dallas. Once there, he registered at a crummy motel, paid cash, and began to scope out the very fancy Ms. Owens.
    She lived in the kind of neighborhood where any stranger was suspect, so it looked as if he’d have to watch from a distance. He didn’t like that. If the FBI was also watching from another building, he’d be visible.
    Maybe they were checking her mailbox. He had no idea what lengths they were willing to go to.
    Should he send flowers with a rendezvous note? But what was to stop the feds from showing up at the meeting place?
    The problem was, he didn’t know enough about her habits to go wait for her at a place she might turn up. He racked his brain until it finally occurred to him that every rich Texas woman would have at least one habit.
    Accordingly, he phoned Nieman-Marcus, said he needed to talk about his bill, and was referred to a Donald McCullough. He then went to the store itself (to get around the caller ID problem) and, by means of a simple ruse or two, actually managed to make a call from the credit department. He was rewarded with the ubiquitous voice mail. Good. The real Rosemarie would probably have just blundered in and interrupted.
    “This is Donald McCullough at Nieman-Marcus,” he told the robot. “I’m returning your call about your bill. Four p.m. at my office will be quite convenient. See you tomorrow.”
    She would know his voice, but how she’d respond, he couldn’t say. What he would do in her shoes would be to go to McCullough’s office, look around for the caller, wait around a bit and leave if they didn’t show up.
    If she did that he could catch her at the bottom of the escalator on the next floor down. Of course, she might decide to turn him in, but he was willing to take the chance. He knew enough