Diamonds and Cole by Micheal Maxwell

said with a slightly questioning smile.
    “No thanks. My name is Sage, Cole Sage. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
    “That kind of comes with the territory. What is it, son?”
    “I understand you have been speaking out against the Malcor project,” Cole began.
    “Now, see here, I will not be threatened or intimidated by you or anyone else! I’m an old man and—”
    Cole cut him off. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m on your side! I’m just trying to get some information.”
    “I’m so sorry,” Bates said with embarrassment. “I’m getting a little edgy. Been getting threatening messages left on my answering machine. Some pretty nasty letters, too. I guess I look at everybody a little suspect lately. I’m sorry.” Bates set the mug of tea on the table. “Have a seat. Let’s start over.”
    “I work for The Sentinel in Chicago.”
    “My, my, I had no idea that our little problem drew national attention,” Bates puffed up a bit.
    “Well, not exactly. You see, I’m in town helping a friend with some legal troubles and—”
    “You’re a lawyer, too?”
    “Nope,” Cole smiled, “but she hasn’t got anybody else. I’m kind of pushy and not afraid to stick my nose in things. That’s why I’m here. Do you know a guy named Christopher, Allen Christopher?”
    “He’s a real estate agent. Represents Malcor. Been buying up every house he can get his hands on ‘round the airport. I hear he has one of the zoning guys in his pocket. That’s probably rumor.”
    “How did you get involved in all this, Reverend?”
    “Please, call me Ted. I’m just a country preacher. No college, no degree, just love the Lord.”
    “All right.” Cole felt very uncomfortable being on first name basis with E.T. Bates. It seemed to take away the aura, like being a kid again and seeing your favorite teacher in their bathing suit at the lake.
    “A lot of my flock comes from the airport district. I was born and partly raised right there on the corner of Hedges and Kent Streets. Our house was originally downtown. It was a little diner called the Three Little Pigs, and my dad bought the building for $100 and had it moved onto our lot. That was in 1934.” Bates realized he was drifting, “Sorry. I get off track sometimes. Anyway, lots of folks out there have been there since the Depression. They own their places, humble as they may be, free and clear. Place to live out their lives. If this zoning change happens, they will get pushed out. Not by choice but by their greedy kids, relatives, and bad counsel.”
    “They don’t have to sell, I mean these aren’t ‘forced’ sales are they?” Cole wasn’t getting where Bates was going.
    “Well, once one or two take the bait, the others will follow. Trouble is, a big block of houses have been bought up over the years by William Brecker.”
    “I know the name. Real estate agent? Got his own office? That guy?”
    “Yessir! Becker must own 50 or 60 houses in the district. If he sells, we got problems. If the zoning changes, we got problems. He’s got a lot of pull downtown and ‘for the good of the community’ the city might just force sales of the holdouts.”
    “How can they do that? Aren’t the deeds honored under the old zoning ordinances?”
    “Not if the properties around them are torn down to make way for future construction. Then we have part ghost town, part neighborhood. It will happen, but then what? These little houses aren’t worth much. Even if they are paid for, what will that dab of money get for them? This is the cheapest section of town. These folks won’t be able to pay the deposit to get into one of those retirement centers on the north side. The renters will be okay. They’ll just find another place. But it’s the older folks I worry about, and that’s who I’m fightin’ for.”
    “So, Christopher approaches the homeowners about selling?”
    “Yes, Lord forgive me, and there’s a crook if I ever saw one. ‘By your fruits ye shall be known’