The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(76)

And it was raining.

Not hard. A steady mist that actually felt good mixed with the summer heat.

I paid for two admissions at the ticket gate using Stephanie’s credit card. It didn’t really matter whether she found me now or not.

This was about to be over.

One way or another.

I carried the two manila envelopes, sealed tight with tape. To protect them I bummed a plastic Mickey Mouse shopping bag from one of the vendors and handed the protected bundle over to Foster. I could see he felt better just holding those envelopes.

I was a little disappointed that there were no security checks to get inside the park. I’d been hoping for more. But people just walked right in through the turnstiles. That meant Oliver and company would most likely come armed. I was working at a disadvantage without a weapon. Cie’s rifle would do me no good here. But sometimes you just had to play your cards as dealt. I was hoping this would go smoothly. I didn’t want to place anyone here in jeopardy. But I kept telling myself that Oliver wanted the files, Valdez the coin, and Foster the recording and his daughter and son-in-law.

Nobody wanted a spectacle.

I had no idea where Valdez was located when I called, but I was sure we were way ahead of him. He’d told me on the phone that he would be there by 9:00 p.m. The park was on summer hours, open until midnight.

We headed into the Magic Kingdom.

Brightly lit topiary shrubs arranged as Mickey Mouse greeted us at the entrance. Through a covered breezeway we came up to ground level inside a town square adorned with manicured grass and pruned trees. Overhead the whistle of a train could be heard as it entered the station we’d just passed beneath. An array of pastel-colored, Victorian-style buildings surrounded us, creating the vision of a midwestern American town, circa 1900. The lilting strains of Disney tunes filled the damp air. Everything looked like a movie set, the perfect image of a perfect town. I decided higher was better, so we climbed some stairs to the train station depot and stood under an elevated porch that overlooked the square below. The rain continued to fall in a light drizzle, but the crowds didn’t seem to mind. I assumed little to nothing ever stopped the fun here. Both breezeways into the park from the main gates were visible, one left, the other right. Foster and I stood at the railing.

“The incredible thing,” Foster muttered, “was that it all happened over nonsense.”

He’d offered little to nothing on the trip south, so I waited for him to explain.

“In ’62 Martin told the press that the FBI was biased toward southern police. He said the FBI was a white organization that catered to white police. Blacks stood no chance with them. He also wondered why there were no black FBI agents. Hoover took great exception to all that. He never allowed anyone to criticize his FBI. Right after Martin made those statements, Hoover tried to set up a meeting to clear the air. This was the first encounter between Martin and Hoover. Hoover had subordinates call the SCLC office to make an appointment for them to meet. The people there took the messages and passed them on, but Martin never called back. Hoover took that to mean he was being shunned. Put off. Ignored. But that was not the case.”

Foster shook his head.

“Martin was just bad about returning calls. He never did. Not to anyone. We all had to stay on him to make sure he called folks back. It was just his way. We now know that Hoover took that omission as a personal insult. Everything between them started after that.”

“Why do you call him Martin?”

He stared back at me.

“You always refer to him as Martin. Not King. Or Bishop. Or anything, other than his name. Except on the tape with Jansen. There you called him King.”

That was the lawyer in me. Listening to a witness. Noticing details. Especially inconsistencies.

“I did a terrible thing,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I was so self-centered. So selfish. Martin saw that weakness in me early on.”

“The money problem?”

He nodded. “That and my ego. I think the only reason the bookies didn’t break my legs was because I was close to Martin. He and I talked about that a few times. He was such a forgiving man. Not a bone of hate in his body. I always though it ironic how we both had weaknesses, only different.”

“If you didn’t care about the movement, why did you join?”

“It seemed like something exciting. An opportunity to be more than what life seemed to be offering me. I went to divinity school because that’s what my mother wanted me to do. I joined the movement as a way to avoid a life as a preacher. I was hoping things would change. That there would be more opportunities. And there were. I became an informant for the FBI. I told myself that I didn’t care about the world. About people. About anything, other than myself. Andy Young wanted me gone. Abernathy didn’t like me, either. But Martin was in charge, so I was allowed to stay.”

“You haven’t answered the question, and you just called him Martin twice more.”

“It’s my way of humanizing him. Making him still real to me. An illusion that somehow we have remained friends.” His sad eyes were near tearing. “But he’s dead and I’m not.”

“Nor are you rich.”

He shook his head. “That’s true. I never sold the coin because I was frightened. Finding the right buyer might have exposed me. Might have exposed the FBI. Those were dangerous men, who were not beyond killing people. I decided to stay in the shadows. To let it go. So I tossed that coin into a box, where it stayed until Coleen found it.”