Book Excerpt from The River: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel by Ray Keating

 

Chapter 6

 

 

The taxi ride from McCarran International Airport to The Twenties was less than eight miles. It took a few minutes longer than normal, though, as Jennifer asked the driver to take the Strip – or Las Vegas Boulevard South – rather than scooting along the Las Vegas Freeway.

As they drove past the landmark “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada” sign, Jennifer squeezed Stephen’s hand. “I love that sign.”

Stephen was a bit surprised. “Really?”

“It’s one of the very few things around here that hasn’t changed since I was a kid.”

“Isn’t Vegas all about change, my economist wife?”

She nodded. “The change here just since I was growing up is incredible. I don’t think people from many other parts of the country fully get it. But when you live it, it’s actually kind of natural. In fact, living it was one of the things that led me into economics.” She turned from her husband, and looked out the window. “Still, no one ever said change was always easy.”

Stephen joined Jennifer in looking out at casinos and hotels of wildly different shapes and sizes – from the Luxor’s Great Sphinx and pyramid to the MGM Grand’s golden lion, along with the “Eiffel Tower Experience” at Paris Las Vegas. While Stephen had been to Las Vegas a few times, the last visit had come more than fifteen years ago – long predating Jennifer, his becoming a pastor, and a chunk of what he was now seeing. 

Stephen turned to Jennifer. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve never been able to fully fit you and Las Vegas together. And now that you and I are here, I still really can’t.”

Jennifer smiled. “There’s more to Vegas than the Strip and gambling. While I was growing up, even with my father in the casino business, my parents, especially my mom, tried to keep me away from much of it. Many people here have little to do with gambling, and only wind up on the Strip when giving the tour to relatives visiting from out of town. At the same time, though, it’s hard not to be influenced. So much of recreational and cultural life occurs at or around the casinos. And let’s face it, few would be here without gambling. But all in all, my childhood was pretty normal, at least until I hit late high school.”

“I know…”

“And there’s still a good deal of Las Vegas in this girl of yours.” She leaned over and kissed him. “That includes some Vegas heat.”

“One of my favorite parts.”

The taxi pulled up to the front doors of The Twenties Club and Casino. The massive building was an amalgamation of 1920s-era architecture. At the street level, the building offered large, two-story arches, red brick, and clear windows. Above the arches, a huge retro-neon sign proclaimed “The Twenties Club and Casino.” As one’s eyes ascended further, the red brick gave way to an art-deco look, with stainless steel, chrome, and stained glass arranged in symmetrical, geometric forms. Crowning the top of the building was a replica of the upper floors and spear of New York City’s Chrysler Building.

The door of the taxi was opened by a young man dressed in a burgundy, white-striped blazer, white oxford shirt with a blue bow tie, pleated, ivory trousers, and white buck wingtips. “Welcome to The Twenties,” he announced with a smile.

After Jennifer and Stephen got out of the taxi, Lou Hammett stepped forward, and said, “Pastor and Dr. Grant, I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m Lou Hammett, the executive director here at The Twenties.” After exchanging quick pleasantries, Hammett turned and gave instructions to his staff to take care of the Grants’ luggage.

Following Hammett down the stairs was Dixon Shaw. “Jenny, I’m so happy to see you.”

As Shaw gave Jennifer a hug, Stephen could see his wife tense up. He also heard the unease in her voice, when she said, “Hi, Dad, how are you?”

Stephen understood how out of character this was. It was the most rare of occasions when Jennifer failed to be engaging and welcoming. She was adept at making others feel at ease. Watching Dixon Shaw, Stephen actually saw the same traits in her father. I guess you’d need that running a casino.

Jennifer’s father turned to Stephen, “Pastor, it’s about time we met face to face.”

Stephen said, “Mr. Shaw, it’s a pleasure…”

Shaw interrupted with a laugh. “‘Mr. Shaw’? Come on. It’s Dix.”

“Of course, Dix, and it’s Stephen.”

Shaw replied, “If you don’t mind, can I stick with ‘Pastor’? It makes me feel better when I worry about my Jenny, knowing that she is being taken care of not only by a man of the cloth, but one who knows how to handle himself in a time of danger.” Stephen knew that Dix was referring to the shooting that occurred at St. Mary’s before Jen and Stephen were married. Dix lowered his voice. “And former CIA to boot. You sure as hell are a vast improvement over that asshole politician Ted Brees. How did that sleazy bastard become a U.S. senator? But then again, it’s politics, right? After I found out what he did, I was going to…”

Jennifer, with a hint of daughter-like scolding in her voice, said, “Dad, please.”

Stephen pondered what Dixon Shaw might do to Ted Brees, and part of him was okay with it. He also picked up the slight shrug of the shoulders and pleading eyes directed his way by Jennifer.

Shaw’s smile broadened a bit more. “Sorry, Jenny.”

Stephen saw Dix enjoying his daughter, and thought it appeared genuine. Stephen even picked up a bit of tension draining from Jennifer.

A small, gentle clearing of the throat came from behind Shaw.

He turned, “Baby, I’m so sorry.” He took Candy Welles’ hand and brought her forward. “Jenny and Pastor, this is Candy Welles, the beautiful light in my life.”

Stephen extended his hand. “Of course, we’ve met Ms. Welles before. It’s good to see you.”

Jennifer seemed taken off guard. “Well, yes, hello, Ms. Welles.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me,” Candy replied.

“As the flight attendant on Dix’s Casino Beach jet on our wedding night, it would be hard to forget,” answered Stephen.

“You certainly had more interesting things to be focused on that night, but that’s so nice. And please, call me Candy. It’s like we’re almost family.”

Jennifer replied, “Um, family? Yes, well, Candy it is.”

Dix added, “It was shortly after that flight that we started seeing each other.”

Jennifer observed, “How nice.”

Stephen could see Jennifer’s emotional conflict. Move things in a different direction, Grant, and quickly. He looked around, and said, “The Twenties looks like an intriguing resort.”

As he slid his arm around Candy’s waist, Dix replied, “I’m very proud of it, and of the work being done by Lou. How about a quick tour, then you two can settle in a bit and we’ll have dinner later?” Looking at Stephen, Dix added, “I thought you could meet my business partners.” 

“That sounds great to me,” answered Stephen. “How about you, Jen?”

She answered slowly, “Yes, of course. But I already know Nicky and Chet.”

Dix commented, “But you’ve never seen The Twenties, have you, Jenny?”

“No, Dad, I haven’t.”

Dix nodded at Hammett, who was standing off to the side. “Lou, give us the grand tour.”

“Yes, sir, Dix,” said Hammett. He signaled over a waitress, who was wearing a short flapper dress with sequins and dangling fringes, a long strand of pearls, bobbed hair, and a cloche hat. She presented a tray of champagne flutes. Jennifer was the first to take a glass, followed by Candy, Stephen and Dix.

Dix toasted the arrival of his daughter and son-in-law, and they all took a sip of the 1995 Krug Clos d’Ambonnay.

As the small group turned to follow Lou, Jennifer whispered in Stephen’s ear, “I’ll be needing a few more of these, I think.”

Lou, along with Dix and Candy, took Stephen and Jennifer on a nearly hour-long stroll throughout the massive hotel, including the Speakeasy Lounge that featured various musical and comedy acts. The Round Table was the resort’s top-tiered restaurant, fashioned after and saluting The Algonquin Round Table of Dorothy Parker fame. Harlem Jazz served up some of the best music in all of Vegas. The two casinos in the building had different personalities – Prohibition sought to capture a 1920s Chicago feel, while the Miami Deal served up palm trees and a large windmill in the middle of the room as a tip to the Roman Pools & Casino of 1920s Miami. The tour went on to include pools, dozens of shops, a spa and salon, fitness center, art gallery, and a small arena.

The tour ended at the door of the suite that Dix insisted Stephen and Jennifer stay in as his guests.

In response to protests from both Jennifer and Stephen, Dix declared, “A beautiful suite for a few days, as my guests, is the very least that this negligent father, not to mention negligent father-in-law, can do.” 

He kissed Jennifer on the cheek, slapped Stephen on the back, took Candy’s hand, and walked away. 

While heading down the hall, Dix said over his shoulder, “We’ll see you at dinner. Nine o’clock in the Speakeasy.”

 

Book Excerpt from "An Advent for Religious Liberty: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel" by Ray Keating

Prologue

The Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria on Park Avenue crackled with the energy of political euphoria.

Supporters of Adam Pritchett were celebrating what appeared to be a victory of historic proportions in the New York City mayoral race. Expensive champagne flowed among the two-thousand-plus revelers in the elegant four-story, two-tiered room. Money wasn’t really an issue for Pritchett, and by extension, for his campaign. Nothing could derail what had come to be known as the “Pritchett Juggernaut.”

Or, at least, that’s how it seemed to everyone in the room, including campaign staff, donors, volunteers, Democratic Party officials, and even the media.

Pritchett ran one of the most unorthodox and expensive mayoral campaigns in New York’s history – and that was saying something. He spent a prodigious amount of dollars on all kinds of political advertising, including television, radio, Internet and social media, newspapers and magazines, direct mail, billboards and seemingly every other paid advertising outlet. 

At the same time, Pritchett completely ignored the media. He failed to do even one interview during the race, did not hold any press conferences, refused to participate in debates, and ignored questions shouted by reporters at campaign stops.

Pritchett, whose net worth topped the $280 million mark, built his wealth as one of New York’s leading commercial real estate developers. The man’s confidence in his own abilities was legendary in New York business circles, and when he decided to jump into politics by running for mayor, his arrogance only seemed to grow. Pritchett simply hired the best political advertising people in the nation, brought on a few political consultants willing to carry out his wishes with few questions, and saturated the largest and most expensive media market in the nation, perhaps the world, with his message.

That message was simple. Pritchett would bring crime, which had spiked over the past couple of years, back under control. He pledged to make sure that every city government job and program was protected, and the budget for public schools would rise. He was more than willing to jack up taxes on “my fellow wealthy residents who receive so much from this great city.”

The unions loved him, as did the rest of the Democratic Party. After all, what wasn’t there to love in a place like New York City? Pritchett was willing to spend his own money to get elected, and spend other people’s money to expand government and fight crime, all while hiking taxes on the rich, of which he was a member. He was a liberal dream.

Pritchett’s opponent didn’t stand a chance. 

The polls had closed a mere twenty minutes ago. The crushed Republican, Robert Nesci, already finished his concession speech. Now, the Pritchett faithful drank, danced and chanted their man’s name. They grew ever more excited, with anticipation mounting for Pritchett’s victory speech.

The only group in the room uniformly unenthused was the media. Despite the fact that they overwhelmingly subscribed to the same party affiliation and policy ideas as Pritchett, these reporters and commentators uniformly hated the guy for his arrogance and, more importantly, his cutting the media out of his campaign. It didn’t matter if they agreed with his agenda or not, access denied was unacceptable. But they looked beaten, resigned to being on the outside looking in for the coming four years.

Just outside the ballroom, Pritchett buttoned his dark blue suit jacket, looked at a key aide, Maureen Donahue, and said, “Well, Maureen, ready to make history?”

She responded, “You’ve already done that, sir.”

“You’re right. But let’s go make some more.” 

Donahue spoke into a cellphone. “Mayor-elect Pritchett is ready. He will be entering in a few seconds.” The 30-year-old Donahue had a soothing voice, bright blue eyes, round face, easy smile, and shoulder length blond hair that combined in a way so that people seemed to automatically like her, and were willing to get things done for her.

Donahue waited about ten seconds, and then pointed to and smiled at a member of Pritchett’s security team, signaling him to open the doors.

The security team formed a wedge in front of Pritchett, with Donahue and two other campaign officials trailing behind.

As Frank Sinatra belted out “New York, New York” amidst applause and shouts of approval, a spotlight focused on the smiling, waving Adam Pritchett. He didn’t look the part of a powerful politician, nor business tycoon, for that matter. Pritchett was short and thin with messy, grayish hair, a pointed, pinched nose, and a nasally voice. He wore thick, square glasses, and somehow, his expensive, tailored suits never seemed to hang right on his body. The entire package combined to make him appear older than his 52 years.

At the podium, Pritchett eventually calmed the faithful long enough to begin his speech. Beyond the generic thank you to voters, his campaign staff and volunteers, Pritchett’s comments were noteworthy for their lack of generosity toward anyone. 

While acknowledging his opponent’s concession speech, Pritchett took a moment to point out, once more, just how wrong Nesci had been on the issues. There also was no use of the word “we” when talking about the campaign or his upcoming administration. Instead, it was “I” and “me.”

But few of Pritchett’s supporters seemed to notice or care.

Then he came to crime. Pritchett said, “And make no mistake, I will make sure that our city is retaken from criminals, that every man, woman and child, every resident, commuter and visitor, will again be safe in this leading global city.”

The crowd erupted once more. A chant of “Pritchett, Pritchett” began and grew ever louder.

After nearly a minute, Pritchett lowered the volume of the crowd.

He began to speak again. “So, as your mayor…”

But a woman’s voice rang out from the floor in front of Pritchett’s podium. She yelled, “God bless you, Adam. We’re praying for you!”

While many in the room responded with hoots of approval, Pritchett’s face instantly transformed from victorious joy to controlled anger.

He pointed in the direction from where the call for blessings and prayers came, and said, “No! No, thank you. I don’t want prayers. I don’t want any god’s blessing. I don’t need it, and New York City certainly does not need it. And let’s be clear, New York does not need religion in the public arena. So, save any talk of prayer for the pews and your private lives. Let’s move away from such nonsense, and get back to the real world and real issues.”

Several individuals cheered Pritchett’s comments, including enthusiastic clapping from two of his three top campaign aides. Some of the Pritchett faithful half-heartedly applauded. But many in the room seemed bewildered, not sure how to react. That included Maureen Donahue.