The Ambition (5 page)

— No. We believe in the fundamentals of the Bible, but the term
fundamentalist
carries a lot of baggage. It’s a pejorative these days. We’d be considered evangelical Christian.

— [Laughs]
That’s
a pejorative to a lot of people.

— Unfortunately, you’re right. And that’s too bad. I think that when people get to know us, they see we’re loving and caring people who just want to tell others about how Jesus has changed our lives.

—Seems like when you say “evangelical,” the first things that come to mind are what you’re against: gay marriage, a woman’s right to choose, embryonic stem cell research. Liberals. Obama.

—We’re actually
for
a lot of things, Garry.

— Oh, yeah. Like the death penalty and torture for terror suspects?

— Is this going to be an editorial or an article?

— Hey, I’m just yanking your chain. Really, thanks for putting up with my questions. It’s just that I had to take the test twice to pass my catechism class when I was a kid — and maybe I’ve had a bit of an attitude toward religion ever since.

—Well, that explains some things! (Laughs) But seriously, we’d appreciate it if your article presents fair and balanced information. Let people visit for themselves and determine if Diamond Point Fellowship is right for them.

— Got it. Let me look at this background material and then I’m sure I’ll have follow–up questions.

—Any time, Garry. Just give me a call.

End of recording.

III

Phillip —
“not Phil”
—Taylor served for eighteen years on Navy ships from the Panama Canal to the Persian Gulf and didn’t want anyone to forget it. Stocky and barrel–chested, with short gray hair in a relaxed crew cut and tattooed arms hidden beneath his button–down shirt and discount–store blazer, the retired ensign looked a lot more imposing than he really was.

You can’t be an ensign for as long as he was, he’d be quick to tell you, without genuinely liking people. And for people with gambling addictions, Phillip Taylor was the friend of last resort.

“This pastrami’s the best,” he said, biting a chunk out of his sandwich in a back booth at Woody’s Deli on North Clark Street. At quarter to three in the afternoon, the place was almost deserted.

Tom O’Sullivan nodded. “Thanks again for meeting with me,” he said. “I know it’s an inconvenience.”

“I work over at a security firm not three blocks away. I don’t mind an excuse to eat here. They bake their own rye every day, d’ya know that?”

Tom picked up his Woody’s Diet Special — lean ham, smoked turkey, low–fat Swiss cheese, and honey mustard on wheat
(still
543 calories) — and tossed the tray aside.

“I know I probably should have just shown up at one of your meetings, but I wanted to get some information first. Besides, I feel a little awkward.”

“‘Cuz of your name?”

“Yeah. My family’s pretty notorious.”

“Confidentiality is one of our core values,” Phillip said. “First names only. What’s said in the room stays in the room. We’ve had some pretty well–known folks in the past and security has never been breached.”

“Really? Like who?”

Phillip laughed — not a pretty sight with a mouthful of pastrami. “Good one,” he said. “You’ve still got your sense of humor — hang onto it. Nine times out of ten, people who seek me out have hit bottom — they’re bankrupt, their bookie’s chasing them, their wife’s left, whatever. Not a lotta laughs.”

Tom sat back and scrutinized him. No, definitely not what he was expecting. The
Examiner
article portrayed him as a kind of miracle worker for people with gambling issues. But he certainly didn’t seem like the poster boy for a white–collar, upscale, suburban church like Diamond Point Fellowship.

Tom tested his lunch — not bad for low–cal. He sipped his light beer and cleared his throat. “Well,” he said finally, “I’ve hit some tough times.”

Phillip put down the remains of his sandwich. “I assumed that or you wouldn’t have called me. You want this pickle? I hate these things. I hate it when the juice gets on the rye.”

“Uh, no thanks. I only like them on hotdogs.”

“Look, you’ve gotta understand something up front. Gambling’s a complicated deal. More complicated than drugs or booze, if you ask me. Compulsions are tough to break. There might even be a physical cause for it.”

“Really?”

Phillip wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Yeah, they’ve studied the brains of gambling addicts and found that winning at cards has the same effect as a hit of cocaine for a druggie. So does it have some sort of a physical component? I don’t know, maybe. But I do know this: a gambling addiction is chronic, it’s progressive, and it will wreck your life.”

“It’s starting to do a pretty good job of that.”

“You’re not alone. You read my story in the
Examiner,
right? I lost my wife because of this. Alienated my two kids for a long time. Chased away friends. I lied and cheated and stole because of this. Almost shipwrecked my career. And I’ll tell you something else, unless you get help like I did, it’s gonna get worse. That’s not just a prediction; that’s a promise.”

Phillip let out a small chuckle. “I was gonna say you can bet on it, but that’s not the best choice of words. The truth is you’re gonna keep taking bigger and bigger risks to get the same rush. And sooner or later, everything’s gonna come crashing down.”

Tom sat back. “But I can beat it, right?”

“Beat it?” Phillip sounded amused. “Ha! Sorry, no.”

“No?”

“Keep it under control, maybe. I said
maybe.
With most traditional programs, there’s one shot in ten that a newbie will stick with it and stay away from gambling for a year.”

“Not good odds.”

“No — a long shot, so to speak. It helps if you add private therapy. You in counseling?”

“No.”

“Should be. I can get you some names. It’s pretty deeply rooted, right?”

“It started when I was twelve. My dad took me to the races at Arlington Park and said he’d bet twenty bucks for me. I pretended to study all the stats in the racing sheet, but I really chose my horse because I liked his name — Wee Tyree.”

“What were the odds?”

“Eight–to–one. I bet all twenty to win. The horse stumbled out of the gate but recovered quickly and then gained strength on the backstretch. I was whooping and hollering the whole time; when he won by a nose, it was like a surge of electricity shot through my body.”

“Yeah, been there. How did it feel to hold the winnings in your hand?”

“That’s the odd thing. When my dad tried to collect, the cashier pointed out the ticket was actually for a horse that finished sixth. My dad leaned down and said to me, ‘Let that be a lesson — when you buy a ticket, check immediately to make sure they punched the number for the right horse.’ “

Phillip grunted. “Seems to me the lesson should’ve been for him — he placed the bet.”

“Yeah, but what could I do? Besides, I was busy scouring the racing sheet, looking for the next horse. I was hooked, right then and there.”

“Like I said — it’s deeply rooted. What’s the latest crisis that brings you to me?”

“Well, it’s a bunch of things. My wife left me last year for the guy who ran her real estate office. I can’t say it was directly because of my gambling, but our financial situation had been shaky for a long time. That really bothered her. He had money, security. As I said, it’s a lot of things. But your program can help me, right? The article said you’ve had good success.”

“Better than most. I’m biased because I’ve been leading this thing as a volunteer for so long, and I’ve seen some pretty amazing recoveries.”

“What makes the difference?”

“We’ve taken the traditional twelve–step approach and ratcheted it up.”

“How so?”

“Ours is faith–based. You a Christian?”

Tom found himself liking Phillip, but there were times when his bluntness annoyed him. “Uh, I went to Catholic school.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Tom shrugged. “What do you want me to say? I believe in God, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s a start. But you have to understand that we don’t just believe in some airy–fairy higher power — anybody can claim anything as a higher power but that doesn’t mean it works. Our twelve steps are based on the Bible. You read the Bible?”

“Not really.”

“Well, personally I believe these principles work because they’re built on biblical values.”

“Such as?” Tom asked, inching forward.

“Humility, confession, forgiveness, honesty, faith — nothing that would surprise you. The Twelve Steps. First, we admit we’re powerless over our compulsive behavior. Sounds like you’re pretty close to that.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be much of a stretch for me.”

“Second, we believe that it’s gonna take a power greater than ourselves to restore our sanity. Third, we turn our lives over to God. Am I making you nervous yet?”

Tom gestured for him to continue.

“Then we make a moral inventory of ourselves and admit our wrongs to God and another person.”

“Whoa,” said Tom. “I’m a lawyer. Lots of confidentiality involved.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody’s forced to do anything illegal or unethical.”

“What’s next then?”

“Well, it goes on from there — we ask God to remove our character faults, we make amends to the people we’ve hurt, we learn to pray and meditate.”

Tom crumbled his napkin and tossed it onto his plate. “I don’t know,” he said. “There’s an awful lot of God stuff in there.”

“That’s … why … it … works,” Phillip replied, emphasizing each word. “I’m telling you there’s a spiritual dimension to this that you can’t ignore. Are you ready for that?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Phillip let out a laugh. “That’s exactly what I said when I was in your position.”

IV

“Bonsoir, monsieur et mademoiselle!”

“Bonsoir, Édouard.”

With the dramatic flourish that only a Frenchman can get away with, the maître d’ grandly ushered Strider and Gina into the lobby of Le Beaujolais in Chicago’s North Loop.

“So good to see you,” Édouard gushed as he collected their coats. “I have a special table for you. And I will serve you personally on this auspicious occasion!”

Strider shot him a glance with the clear but unstated message,
Tone it down, buddy, before she gets suspicious!

Gina looked elegant in a sleeveless burgundy dress that subtly accentuated her figure. Somehow — and Strider loved this about Gina — her short dark hair managed to look both coiffed and casual at the same time. That was such a reflection of her personality: playful and unfussy, yet with an unforced and underlying sophistication.

He’d even dressed for dinner this time — sort of. He was wearing a dark suit and French blue shirt open at the collar. Sure, his black shoes were scuffed, but this was about as well as he cleaned up.

The evening had an unusual feel for both of them. When they lived together, they typically ate at home, with Gina creating minor masterpieces out of leftovers, or they dined at informal little cafés near their townhouse. But in the three weeks since Gina had moved into Jen’s apartment, their get–togethers were more like the dates they used to have after they first met.
That wasn’t all bad,
Gina mused.

Friday night was Strider’s favorite time to visit Édouard’s dark wood bistro, because it was the only evening that he offered his signature bouillabaisse. Édouard prefers to serve it in the traditional style of his native Marseilles, with four different kinds of fish in one dish and the delicately seasoned broth in another.

As for Gina, any night was good at Édouard’s; she was equally fond of the coq au vin, the grilled lamb brochettes with couscous, and a half dozen other entrees that were fixtures on the menu. The prices, though reasonable for a restaurant of its caliber, were enough to keep their visits fairly infrequent, so each one became an experience to savor.

“We have a special appetizer tonight — ratatouille with goat cheese in a delicate pastry shell with a tomato coulis,” Édouard said after seating them at a candle–lit table in the corner, away from other diners.
“C’est très bien!
Then again, I know you like the sautéed crab cakes with aioli.”

“We
love
the crab cakes, Édouard,” said Gina, turning to Strider.

“Yes, Édouard, please — the crab cakes. We’ve been thinking about them all day.”

“Bien!”
he declared before disappearing into the kitchen.

Strider slipped on his wire rims and smiled as he looked fully at Gina. “You look great — as usual,” he said.

“Oh, Strider, thanks. This is such a wonderful way to end the week. The kids have been pretty rambunctious. Seems like summer will never get here! “

Strider nursed his South African chenin blanc — not his favorite, but it was Édouard’s cheapest white wine by the glass. Gina sipped a club soda with lime.

“Got plans for the weekend?” she asked.

“Nothing special. Maybe we could take a stroll through Lincoln Park tomorrow, if the weather’s nice.”

“Oh, that would be great — early, before the crowds. And Sunday — want to come to church with me again?”

Strider cocked his head. “Church?”

“Like last weekend. You know, Diamond Point. You left right afterward so we didn’t get to talk about it.”

“Oh, well, I’m not sure I’ll need to. I may have all the color I need for the story.”

“The story? Are you writing something about the church?”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, you never mentioned that. I thought you were going because you wanted to, because you were really interested in what’s happening in my life.” There was no missing the hurt in her voice.

Strider scrambled. “Oh, sure, that too! Of course I’m interested in what you’re going through. And on top of that, I needed to experience a service for myself if I’m going to write about the place. Didn’t you notice I was taking notes?”

“Strider, you’re
always
taking notes! You never told me you were writing about Diamond Point. What’s the angle?”