The Tavern and the Pulpit

By Alan Cliffe

Part One: Churchgoing Men, 1945
Antoinette Timrod

Tony didn’t seem like the other white guys at the El Dorado. I mean, not just the obvious thing of being younger than his dad and uncles. He’d been overseas for a few years, including in Italy, like a lot of the young men. But somehow his travels made him seem more American than the older guys with the mustaches. And he’d look me in the face like he saw a human being there, not just a bronze drink-getter whose butt you pat instead of thanking her when she gets the drinks. He was cleaner somehow. And things got a little out of hand.

Tony Iacano entered his father’s study at 2:00 P.M. sharp, as per his summons. “Sit down, Anthony.” The younger man obeyed. “Are you sure it’s yours?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Oh, pretty sure,” said Don Piero Iacano, repeating his son’s words in a pseudo-pompous, mocking voice. “Look, Tony, you’re a grown man. I supported what you did in the war, and I respect it. And I’ve never tried to tell you who to fuck or not to fuck. But you can’t marry her. And you can’t just tell her ‘tough shit,’ or send her to Dr. Greene. Because believe it or not, her father isn’t just another numbers runner like you think.”

“No shi—”

“No shit is right. I’m a businessman, Tony. But the business I’m in, it’s not all dollars and cents. It runs on friendship and respect. And Aaron Timrod’s a friend. You know, the books have been opened. I could put you up for membership, but I’m starting to wonder if you’ve got the kind of brains a man needs for that life. I’ve always had high hopes for you. And you’re the only son I’ve got since we lost Vito. I don’t know what you’ll end up doing, but I’m asking you—don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t. I promise you that.”

“Good. As far as the colored girl goes, I’ll speak with Timrod. You’ll have no part in that. But don’t fuck up like that again.”

“No sir.” A nod from his father told the younger man that the meeting was over. The two of them stood and shook hands, and Tony took his leave.

As Aaron Timrod waited for a visitor on an evening in November, the thought came to him—not for the first time—that he and that visitor might be more alike than different. An odd notion, possibly a dangerous one? Maybe, and it might be wise to keep it to oneself. But consider it: Piero Iacano was a churchgoing man and a strict-but-loving patriarch and provider to his family, as was Timrod. They had done business for years and came to know each other well. They were not exactly golfing buddies, and never would be. And there could be no question of marriage between their respective offspring. There was, however, a mutual respect between the two men. That respect, as was usual in their world, was nourished and sustained by an economy of favors and advice.

When Piero Iacano came to the door, Antoinette Timrod answered his knock. She was wearing a large pair of sunglasses even though she was indoors and it was getting dark outside. She summoned her father and retreated to another part of the house as the men sat down in the parlor. “I appreciate your coming, Don Piero. It’s not as if you really had to.”

“Anything for a good friend. And I regret that my son seems to have complicated things for your family.”

“Well, my daughter has complicated things for herself. Annie and I have been praying for her, and our pastor has been of some comfort. But I have already thought of a possible solution. There is a young fellow who does some work for me …” Here Annie Timrod came into the parlor with coffee for the two men.

That “young fellow” was one Isaiah Wren, who had come under Timrod’s mentorship when he was only twenty. He had led a bunch of teenage delinquents in trying to rob a high-stakes poker game controlled by the Iacanos. When the shooting stopped, Vito Iacano and all of Wren’s crew except Wren himself were dead. Wren managed to survive, ski-mask intact and his identity undetected, and find his way to safety. The robbery, of course, was a stupid and tragic affair. But Timrod saw something in the young man. Now, at thirty-one, he was one of Timrod’s best earners. He had already been married and divorced three times. He had a reputation as a prodigious ladies’ man before, during, and after those marriages. But not one of his divorce settlements, nor any one of his less-formal relationships, had been complicated by a child or children. People were starting to wonder why. Men who were supposed to fear him would smirk when they thought he wasn’t looking. When Aaron Timrod phoned him one evening and told him to be at the Timrod house in one hour—just to talk, no big thing—he made himself ready. As did Antoinette Timrod.

The magnificent four-tier wedding cake from Gino’s, and half the cost of the hall, came courtesy of the Iacanos. Don Piero attended and left an envelope with a generous gift for the young couple. Anthony Iacano did not attend.

Part Two: Wafers, 1966 
Ella Spivey

The joke went something like this: a boy—let’s say he’s eight or nine, about our age then—is sent to church alone with some money for the collection plate. He stops at a store on the way and spends the money on vanilla wafers instead; he eats a few and puts the rest in his pocket. When he gets to the church, the sermon has already started. He sits down as the priest declares that “The Lorrrd is here. The Lorrrd is there. The Lorrrd is everywhere.”

“Well,” says the boy, in a voice loud enough for the whole congregation to hear, “the Lord better not be in my pocket eating my vanilla wafers.”

The thought of that one cracks me up even more now than when I heard it, twenty-odd years ago. Maybe it’s the vanilla wafers. It wouldn’t be as funny if the boy spoke up about, say, a candy bar. As for the boy who told the story, one Clarence Wardell, I can almost picture him as the protagonist. Almost, but not quite. Maybe you could get away with something like that at the Episcopal church where I go now, but not at West Mount Zion.

I was back there recently for a memorial service. It struck me that a church’s impression on a person might come more from the character and aspect of the building than from what a preacher is saying. A church like West Mount Zion, with dark wood everywhere, and the sanctuary’s two- or three-story-high ceiling with stained glass that the sun shines through on a good day, can put you in mind of heavenly realms. That ceiling also made me think of more prosaic matters, such as how they can afford to heat the place. Not to mention the maintenance of the building overall, the salaries of the preacher and others, and the annex they’re building for adult Sunday classes. Of course, they pass the plate. But the congregation is smaller and maybe a touch poorer than it used to be, owing to attrition both by death and by some of the more prosperous members moving to the suburbs.

It may not exactly be blasphemous, but I suppose it is a little naughty to be thinking about financial mysteries during a service. And maybe it puts you at risk of missing out on the spirit of the occasion. But what can I say? I followed my sister into teaching—nowadays I teach high-school science and social studies—and I’m an activist off and on. If I hadn’t been analytical to begin with, those subjects, and the latter vocation, would have made me so. And the older I get, the less I see the hand of God in this human world. I do still love Jesus. And I’m pretty sure He still loves me. I might have had impious thoughts in the sanctuary, but He didn’t show up and turn over my table at the repast afterward.

I don’t know if God was at the repast, but Isaiah Wren was. The most powerful gangster on the West Side—apart from the Iacanos—father of one, husband to one woman and sometime lover to many, sat conferring quietly with Reverend Lee. In his conservative navy suit and solid-red tie he was inconspicuous, albeit recognizable, among the mourners. He could almost have been just one more fiftyish acquaintance of the deceased. Only the hardness in his eyes served to show what kind of man he was. I’d never seen him at the church before, although his Aunt Eula was a mainstay for years before she passed back in the forties. I was looking over at the gangster and the pastor, wondering about their connection, when I sensed another man standing by my table.

I turned. “Hey, girl.” It was Clarence Wardell. I hadn’t seen him at the service. But there he was, plate piled with macaroni and cheese and fried chicken, looking sharp in a gray silk suit and crimson ascot.

Me: Clarence? Sit yourself down.

He bowed gallantly to the older church ladies at my table as he sat; they gave him hollow smiles and turned away. He was leaner than I remembered, with a new beard not quite covering a long scar on one cheek. The scar was new too. At least it hadn’t been there when I’d last seen him. Seven years can change a man, especially if he’s spent three or four of those years in the joint, but overall he was looking good.

Clarence: So, how you doing? Still teaching?

Me: Yeah.

He smiled as he continued:

Clarence: I heard you were putting some cream in your coffee a while back.

Me: Oh, you never mind about that. Tom’s a good guy. He’s studying journalism. That, and trying to stay out of Vietnam. He wants to be some kind of hard-hitting reporter, and he thinks I must know stuff.

Clarence: Well, you do. And I guess he knows a good thing when he sees it.

I grinned.

Me: Could be. Still, he’s awfully young. Or maybe I’m too old. Anyway …

Clarence: Too old? Girl, gimme a break. You’re what, thirty-four?

Me: Somewhere in there. So … you doing okay?

Clarence: Getting by. I do a little of this and a little of that.

I let that pass. When a man’s being vague about his work I don’t ask, any more than I’d ask Clarence how things were in the joint. We spoke of younger days and old acquaintances for a while as we ate.

Two tables over, Isaiah Wren shook hands with Reverend Lee and made ready to leave. Clarence followed suit and we said our goodbyes.

The Reverend Charles Lee’s Journal, June 19 
In the beginning, and beyond

As a Christian, I believe that God spoke worlds into being, and that our Savior is the Word made flesh. As a preacher, I am intimate with words as the tools of my trade. Therefore, I take them seriously. I have been trying in subtle ways—so I hope—to get people to address me as Pastor Charles rather than Reverend Lee. But I expect that on a larger scale this is unimportant, despite any irritation or preference of mine. Try to tell my people that “reverend” is a descriptor? Forget it. They want and need to see me as a counselor and spiritual advisor, not a grammarian. So, yes, forget it, or “fuhgeddaboutit,” as that Wren person would say. He spends too much time around the Italians. As for that association, he’s starting to think he’s the dog and they’re the tail, but of course he’s wrong. I pray for him every day. Both for his mortal self and for his soul’s salvation. This does not mean I want his face to become a common sight at West Mount Zion. I cannot and would not turn him away, but awkward questions could arise.

Tom Brennan
From “Re-Entry on the West Side,” Near West Journal, July issue

Clarence Wardell looked at me the way a Hell’s Angel might look at me and my Honda 250. “Young brother,” he said, “if you want to know what goes down in the penitentiary, you’ve got to stop asking about Black Power and get hip to Block Power. And I know you want to know about the scar from how you keep looking at it like you’re not looking at it. Now, turn off the recorder.” I started to do as he asked. “Matter of fact, it doesn’t matter. Why don’t you leave it running? I called Isaiah Wren ‘Isaiah,’ just like I did on the outside. But on C Block, in front of the brothers, he was Mr. Wren.”

“He cut you?”

“Didn’t have to. People saw the look on his face and that’s all it took.”

“But you work for him now?”

“I do what I do. We’re friends, sometimes I drive his car. But it’s about respect.”

“You mean in the joint?”

“Anywhere. But cats take it to the tenth power in there.”

Ella Spivey

A couple of weeks after the service, and just after Tom’s article came out, I ran into Clarence again as I was getting groceries. We decided to have a quick cup of coffee at the Bucket of Nails, a nearby beatnik hangout just starting to turn longhair.

Me: Nice of you to talk to Tom. He says his editor wants to see more of his work now, maybe even put him on staff.

Clarence: The white boy? He’s a good kid. I only gave him what I thought he could handle. And whatever wouldn’t put anyone back in the joint.

Me: Well, that goes without saying. Actually, I don’t know anything about that kind of thing.

Clarence: Mmm hm. I hear you guys smoked a joint afterwards.

Me: Yeah. I had to show him how to inhale. But I think he had a religious experience. You know, Clay, you’re bad. And speaking of religion, I’ve been wondering what Isaiah Wren has on Pastor Charles. You know I wanted to be a reporter myself before I decided on teaching, right?

Clarence: Yeah, but Isaiah and the pastor? I know Nuth-ink! For real, who says anybody has something on anybody else? They’re both important men in the community. Maybe they just wanted to talk.

Me: About what? Getting a traffic light put up somewhere?

Clarence: You never know.

“And when the man …” I sang sarcastically, from a song by my blues-singing uncle. “Comes ’round again,” sang Clarence, and our voices joined on the last line—“You never know.”

The Reverend Charles Lee
From sermon of June 26

There was a stranger who arrived at Gomorrah with thirteen pieces of silver and two harlots. He not only brought them to the inn to ply their trade; he soon bought the inn. And he turned it into his heathen idea of a temple. That thirteen pieces of silver soon became hundreds more. Yes, many visitors came, as the weak are easily misled into mistaking the profane for the holy, and the holy for the profane. Now, we know what happened to Gomorrah. And the stranger was killed along with almost everyone else. What is less known is that the two “harlots” were the only survivors of God’s destruction of the city. The meaning here is not, of course, that one ought to prostitute oneself. Although one ought not to cast the first stone either; they were poor girls, cast out by their families and their tribes. The meanings are two: we must take care not to be misled into mistaking the profane for the holy and the used and abused are more blessed than the users and abusers. (And sometimes you have to pull from the apocrypha.)

Isaiah Wren

Sheeit. Don’t know what that was about. The good Reverend’s got a dick like any other man, and he uses it for damn sure. And he’s got some fucking balls looking right at me every time he talked about that “stranger.” When it’s my money, from my businesses and my girls, that pays his bills. You can call me a gangster, you can call me a pimp, but I keep my promises. Maybe he doesn’t care about that. Or maybe he’s got a guilty conscience. But I won’t do anything drastic. Not yet anyway. One thing I’ve learned from both Timrod and the Italians—the smart ones, anyway—is you don’t want to get respect mixed up with attention. That I don’t need, except from the girls.

At the age of forty-two, Anthony Jerome Iacano still had a casual, almost boyish manner with associates, underlings, and potential business partners or rivals, and this had served him well. To the people in his world, his manner conveyed a truth about him, and a subtle warning: this man wears his authority lightly because he is under no necessity to wear it any other way. To mistake his informality for laxness could be fatal. That was a mistake that no astute person, and certainly not his table mate on a certain evening in July, would make.

The two men shared a table in a semi-private room of the Saint Christopher Tavern and Social Club. The lights were dim. But the red leather upholstery of the furniture seemed to cast a subtle glow; each man’s face was clearly visible to the other.

“How’s the boy?” asked Anthony Iacano.

“Golden,” replied Isaiah Wren. “Some scouts are interested.”

“Well, that’s good news. You just might have the next Jim Brown in your family. But I’m sure it won’t go to his head; you raised him right. Well, you and Tonette.” A pensive look passed over his features and was gone. “How old is he now?”

“Ulysses is twenty-one.”

“A good age to be starting a pro career.”

“Yes, and old enough to ask questions about what he was told when he was growing up. And about what I do, but that’s a cross we’ve all got to bear.”

“I heard he just asks questions about numbers and God. It seems to me he’s got focus.”

“Math and God,” said Isaiah, with a significant look at Anthony on the first word. “He knows you can only play football so long. He might want to teach or work in finance down the road. We don’t want him getting mixed up in my kind of work.”

“Does he?”

“Doesn’t seem that way. So, yeah, math, God, and pro-football players’ salaries. And his skin tone.”

There was a silence lasting about five seconds. “Well,” said Anthony, “how honest can a father in our line of work be? Do me a favor—let me know if you figure that out. You’ve got, what, ten years on me? All I know is, when it comes to Ulysses, we all want the best for him.”

“Indeed.”

Iacano looked Wren in the eyes for a moment, then broke into a friendly grin. “You’re a good man, Isaiah. Let’s have another drink.” He snapped his fingers and a waitress appeared instantly.

Antoinette Timrod-Wren could smell both expensive brandy and another woman on her husband when he arrived home a little after 1:00 A.M. A three-hour, screaming-and-shouting argument ensued, punctuated by some slaps back and forth, and followed by the kind of exhaustion that allows for only two possibilities: an uneasy sleep or something like conciliation.

“Isaiah,” she said, “you might be a pain in my beautiful ass, you might fuck every cheap-ass bitch in the city who’s got a pulse and a cooch, and you might have just about convinced yourself that Ulysses is yours even though I conceived him before I ever heard your name. But there’s one thing you need to know: You really are Ulysses’s father. There’s more to that than squirting some jizz into a woman. I don’t give a good flying fuck about Tony Iacano. We raised that boy, and he’s turning into a good man. Even if his dad’s a gangster and his mom’s a gangster’s wife. He’s got better ideas for himself. And God has plans for him that have nothing to do with drugs, guns, or hoes.”

“Well, so do I, baby, so do I. I hear you. But the thing is, nobody can know. Without respect, I’m fucked; it don’t matter how much money I got or how many tough brothers with guns take their orders from me. Because they won’t be taking them for long if I lose respect.”

“Isaiah, it was twenty years ago. More than that. And the street might be tough, but it ain’t the penitentiary. I don’t think the younger guys really care about who fucked who. They’re too busy trying to get they own dicks wet.”

“Maybe. But speaking of which …”

“Umm, maybe in the morning.”

Tom Brennan
From “It’s a Raid,” West Side Journal, August issue

A police raid on the offices of Dockside Leisure Services netted male contraceptives, a kilo of heroin, seven hundred thousand dollars in small bills, a still-functional 1920s Thompson sub-machine gun, an assortment of blackjacks and brass knuckles, and a list of names with addresses and phone numbers. A police spokesman told a reporter the department is assuming it’s a client list. The names were not being made available to news media at press time. The only arrest during the raid was that of Isaiah Wren, an ex-convict and known gangster, and the only person on-site at the time.

From police transcript Lee/Wren 39

“I only gave Wardell the money for your bail so that we could speak privately. And of course, you understand that its source must remain private. What I want to know is whether my name is on that list.”

“Hell no. Why would it be?”

“Perhaps you can tell me. And I’ll thank you not to use that language here.”

“Sorry. But are you sure the list is the only reason? Doesn’t my tithing mean anything?”

“Your tithing? You cannot be serious. You are the executor of your late aunt’s estate, and you are simply carrying out your duty in that capacity. I appreciate that you have thought fit to do so, although you did not really have a choice. But never think it makes you a benefactor to this church or confers on you any special status in spiritual terms.”

Well, don’t that beat all. He knows damn well there’s nothing left of Eula’s estate. I don’t have a choice? The fuck I don’t. But the great and powerful Lee is one sly motherfucker. Biggest mistake I could make right now is underestimate him.

“My spiritual status? I never said I had any. All I know is, your job is to take care of their souls and mine is to take care of their needs.”

“Their ‘needs’? Do their souls not have needs? What in the world are you talking about? Their bodies’ needs? Or their ‘needs’ for drugs, gambling, and illicit sex? Those are not needs but depraved appetites.”

“Well, you seem to have at least one of those ‘depraved appetites’ yourself, and I don’t remember you turning down the hundred-percent discount for clergymen. Or clergymen named Charles Lee.”

The Reverend Charles Lee’s Journal, August 20

Oh, what a character. A benighted one. I did not tell him, because he would not have understood, that this church serves the physical needs of men, the need for physical ecstasy, as well as the spiritual. We are not Catholics, we are not Presbyterians, and if you have ever been part of a Baptist service (Has Wren? Yes, but that is hard to believe) you can understand that when the Holy Ghost is present, the ecstasy of the physical and that of the spiritual are as one. Who needs drugs? Who needs rock and roll? And who, for goodness’ sake, needs “soul” music? (An appalling misnomer, that, bordering on blasphemy. Although, as the young folks love to say, that’s just my opinion. It’s not necessarily Baptist doctrine. And I have no quarrel with C.L. Franklin or his beautiful daughters. I simply cannot.)

The crucial thing about Wren: when people come to me for counsel, they say things they would not say to anyone else. And I do not forget. The Timrod girl’s visit, all those years ago—words fail me. Glorious it was. But no fleshly sin between us, thank God. And in saying that now I am mindful of a greater gift He gave me: the ability to deduce facts unknown to my interlocutor from his or her own words.

What is the right term? Sublimation? The truth of Wren’s child’s paternity, and Wren’s own fourteen youthful sins against the laws of God, man, and the Mafia—in descending order of importance, it is needless to add—led to his ongoing material support for this spiritual endeavor of ours. In this, one can see and feel the mystery, indeed the subtlety, of God’s grace to man.

Part Three: Let it be Known, 1966–67

Tom Brennan
From “Bullets in the Rectory,” West Side Journal, September issue

An envelope was found in the late Charles Lee’s safe after his still-unsolved murder. It bore the words “To be opened in the event of my
untimely death.” Police protocol mandates that such documents be kept under wraps until any and all related legal matters are closed. It seems, however, to have found its way—after disappearing from a police evidence room—to an interested party. A man named in the enclosed document is now dead. According to a police spokesman, the envelope contained a single sheet with these words: “Let it be known that a crew under the command of Isaiah Wren murdered Vito Iacano in 1934.” Wren, an ex-convict and known gangster, was gunned down outside the Players Lounge, a nightclub he owned, two days after Lee’s death on September 29th. The police have not named any suspects in either slaying. Both murders are still under investigation. A spokesman had no comment on the apparent theft of the envelope.

At press time it was unknown whether Lee had any heirs. Wren is survived by his widow, Antoinette Timrod-Wren, and an adult son. A tearful Timrod-Wren recently told a reporter that “The Church will provide.”

Ella Spivey

There might have been something fishy about Pastor Charles, but I couldn’t help feeling a certain twinge for him. As for Clarence, I wasn’t sure whether condolences were in order for his—what? Boss? Mentor? Friend? Scar-giver? Anyway, it was a few months later and he seemed to be doing okay.

I had put on Sketches of Spain. The three of us were down to the last of Clarence’s excellent weed. But conversation was still going strong; that lull you can get when stoned people turn inward hadn’t set in. I suppose that had to do with both the music and a cool breeze from the balcony. We’d been talking about an ongoing rent strike in the neighborhoods for a while, and we were starting to shift over to the disposition of forces in the community.

Me: It’s interesting how some of the militants introduce each other as the Deacon of This and the Minister of That. Seems like there’s no getting away from the church, no matter what you might think about it.

Clarence: Well, I don’t know if the militants want to get away from it so much as pick up where it leaves off. Or maybe steal its thunder.

Tom: Is it just the militants? I’m thinking more of ‘minister’ as in who’s going to minister to whom, and are they going to minister back. And whether it gets competitive.

Me: Ah, you’re stoned, sweetheart.

Tom: Could be, but …

Clarence: Well, you’ve got all kinds of ministrations going on, in all kinds of ways. Down on Kinsman, every damn where.

Me: Everywhere? For real? I hope that doesn’t hurt me with the administration where I’m at.

Clarence: You silly.

Me: You’re silly. I was silly in the morning when the world had begun, I’ll minister to you in the sta-ars and the sun …

Clarence: And you came from the Delta where you danced on the Earth …

Me: But I split for Ohio, and I see what that’s worth.

Clarence: Damn, if we were slick? We’d be getting paid for this shit.

Coda: Abstract of From Tavern to Pulpit, From Prison to Boardroom: A Study in Symbiosis (excerpt), with attached interview by the author. Doctoral dissertation by Ella Spivey, 1976

As is well known, an underground or “illegitimate” economy and/or subculture must depend on the above-ground, “legitimate” one for its own existence. We shall consider whether the reverse is also true, in some or all circumstances, and if so, what sort of truth this is, and what implications it might hold.

Antoinette Timrod, continued:

When I talked to your friend after what happened—the young white guy?

Tom?

Yeah. I didn’t say everything I was thinking. I couldn’t, not really. The thing is, Pastor Charles was almost as much of a mentor to my husband as my father was. He didn’t even know it. And he shouldn’t have got so greedy, and so disrespectful, or they’d both be alive today. Isaiah barely went to services after Eula passed, certainly not after our boy got into his teens. But he’d already learned that when someone comes to you for counsel, and I don’t care if it’s the toughest motherfucker in the city, you don’t call them weak, you hear them out, and you help them the best way you can. Not to buy loyalty, but because if you listen well you’ll know where they are weak. And Isaiah didn’t learn that from my father or Tony Iacano. I guess he didn’t learn it quite well enough, because he’s dead, but the man he learned it from was Charles Lee.
[…]

Looks like Ulysses is having a good season.

Yeah, and he doesn’t want to know from point shaving or any of that gangster bullshit. Never has.

This story originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 18.

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge.