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s! Hed been thinking about cribbage combinations. How was he to know that a picture of him standing there with squinted eyes, open mouth, and open fly would appear on the cover of magazines all over the world. TELEVISION reporters seek the currency of the bizarre, which, translated into Nielsens, means higher advertising revenue. Summoned by anonymous tips from the Reverend Bobby Meachams public relations corps, both broadcast and print journalists were still listening to the details of Lucien Salvants inheritance on a Dallas all-news radio station when dint and Flub Bonner pulled up to the world headquarters of the International Gospel of Gods Beneficence in an Aston Martin. Those who had seen the scene in the New Orleans saloon were still laughing about how the cameras had ambushed the poor damned professor walking out of the John with his fly unzipped. As Clint and Flub stepped out of their automobile, there was some confusion and a few questions, but the reporters, in deference to the nearby house of God, were remarkably subdued. Out of the shadows of the dazzling building stepped the Reverend Bobby Meacham, counsel and confidant of presidents and the designated author of a score of ghostwritten best-selling books offering advice and succor to Christians everywhere. Video cameras waited to capture every moment. Still cameras snapped and clacked. Meachams media people had considered the quality of light, which pleased the photographers. Judging from their sorrowful appearances and darkened eyes, the Bonner brothers had been through a dreadful ordeal in the days following their fathers death. Flub and Clint had never shown any interest in religion before. There was not an assignment editor or city editor in Dallas who did not wonder what was up. Old Cactus Jack was dead, and his kids appeared to be his clones. But were they? How would they hold up under pressure after all those years of waiting in the shadow of lawyers? Did they have Jacks guile, or did their mothers genes predominate? Judging from this performance, they were mammas boys. But were they really Christians? Was that possible, or was it so much more Bonner bullshit? What kind of poke was this? The cameras whirred as the Reverend Bobby Meacham, glowing with celebrity and showing his famous smile and incredible white teeth, strode out to meet them, his arms outstretched, laying on his all-purpose southern accent; Cli-int! Flub! Its so good to see you two rascals again. Its been a long time. How yall been doin? This dropping of the g was to please his largely blue-collar following. Meacham divided Clint into two syllables, Cli-int, to satisfy Oklahomans, who were superb givers, among the best in fact. Meacham had never met the Bonners, but because of their fortune had wanted to for years. Its been too long, Bobby! Flub said. Bobby! Bobby! He embraced Meacham. Praise the Lord, Bobby! Praise Him! Praise Him! said Clint, hugging Meacham. (Later, Flub would swear at his younger brothe.