Brambleman (51 page)

Minerva fanned herself with her hand before
continuing. “Anyway, Demetrious and he start carrying on, saying
they’re stealing what is rightfully ours. The boys are shouting to
get out before they kill them. Let me tell you, those men left in a
hurry.” She paused and looked down. “I told the boys they had no
business doing what they did. I should have told them to get
themselves gone.”

Her eyes widened. “Not ten minutes later,”
she said, her voice high and indignant, “The law comes and takes
Demetrious and P-Dog away. Now his friend is nothing but bad news,
and this isn’t the first time Demetrious has been in trouble, and
with a gun, well—that’s not good at all.” She shook her head. “I
expected to get a phone call from him, but not a word. The next
day, I saw your bloody face in the paper and found out that you’d
disappeared. That’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That it was over. Things weren’t going to
work out the way I’d hoped. And it wasn’t safe to fight about it.
While I’m trying to get Demetrious out of jail, calling lawyers—and
I can’t even find his mama, but Shaundra is a whole ’nother
story—the men come back, real confident now. They say they can make
the boys’ problems go away, drop charges, clear the record, if I
just sign the quitclaim.” She laughed ruefully. “They’d pay me ten
thousand. Half what they’d offered before.”

“That’s extortion!” Charlie cried.

“Well, I’ve got to look out for mine. I took
the money. I had to. There’s going to be some big bills coming with
the baby. And now Demetrious is out of jail. Not that he’ll stay
out.”

“
Oh, Minerva
,” he said, unable to hide
his disappointment in her.

Anger flashed across her face. “Don’t you
‘Oh, Minerva’ me. Looked like they got rid of you. Those men said
there wasn’t going to be a book, and even if there was, it wouldn’t
matter, because they’d fix it so nobody would believe anything you
said. Next thing I know, you’re in jail, then you’re all bloody on
the news yesterday, then you disappear again. I figured they put
you on a chain gang, or did you like they did my father.” She shook
her head.

“I wish you hadn’t signed the quitclaim.”

She stood up. “Well, that happens to be
my
business. And what would you have done besides give me
free advice that would keep my baby in jail? Don’t know why I’m
explaining myself to you,” she huffed. “Anyway, you got your story.
That’s what’s important to you, and that’s all I’ve got to say.”
She held up her hand to fend off his arguments.

Obviously, it was time to go. Charlie stood
up. “Did you get the name of the cops?”

“No,” she snapped, then added, “They were
dressed in suits, like detectives. They said they were GBI.”

“Really.” He took a sip of bitter brew for
the road and left, mumbling apologies for their awkward
reunion.

Minutes later, Charlie pulled into the
parking lot of a Memorial Drive convenience store next to a
check-cashing service crowded with workers on payday. He was
thirsty, but when he saw the news rack—and the photo of his head
under a boot—he opted for the grisly souvenir instead. As he fed
change into the machine, a derelict rushed up with his hand out.
Charlie turned away and retreated to the car, ignoring the
panhandler’s pleading eyes.

He laid the paper on the seat beside him.
Only then did he see the front-page story by Crenshaw he’d missed
on the Internet due to his obsession with himself: “Forsyth Farm
Sells for $22 Million.”

“Shortly after 3 p.m. Thursday,” the article
stated, “retired farmer Isaac Cutchins of Coaltown took time off
from feuding with Charles Sherman to become a multimillionaire.”
Crenshaw reported that Department of Transportation Commissioner
Robert Mann had been “actively involved” in pursuing a portion of
the parcel for development of the Outer Perimeter highway. The rest
of the land would be used in a major retail development. “While
Cutchins, who has repeatedly threatened reporters with bodily harm,
refused comment on the sale, his son, Rep. Stanley Cutchins
(R-Cumming) called it ‘a blessing.’ However, a spokesman for
GrassRoots Georgia called the sale ‘a blatant conflict of
interest.’”

A blessing
. Charlie laughed bitterly.
Shortly after 3 p.m
. Finch and Drew had held him until the
deal closed, released him, and then, he was certain, sicced the
local cops on him. Good times. Obviously, the varmints thought he
was a lot smarter and more dangerous than he actually was. In fact,
he felt like a dumbass, knowing that he could have shouted the
truth from the rooftops early on and perhaps stopped the sale, or
made sure Minerva received what was rightfully hers.
But no.
That wasn’t his style
. Instead, he had sandbagged and played
coy, planning to release
American Monster
according to his
own agenda—thereby making his grand entrance in the fourth act of a
three-act play. So the wicked prospered, thanks to God’s
incompetent avenger. And the joke was on Minerva.

Then again, she should have gotten a lawyer,
like he’d told her to.

To hell with it.

Charlie drove toward the afternoon sun with
no idea where to go next or what to do. He just knew he didn’t want
to return to the loft and risk an interview or another
assassination attempt. He wanted neither to talk nor die, and he
especially didn’t want to think about the sale, for that would be
dwelling on the land of his enemies. He couldn’t concentrate and
grew angrier with each passing second. Was God mocking him, or had
God Itself been mocked? “Fuck it!” he shouted, banging the steering
wheel.

As he approached Redeemer’s church on
Memorial Drive, Charlie wondered if Trouble might be lurking about.
Whether the supernatural creep was fully charged or operating on a
dead battery, Charlie wanted answers. He pulled into the empty
gravel lot of the Holy Way House and scouted for danger. Two
middle-aged black men in hard hats walked along the other side of
the street. Charlie exited the van and stepped toward the church.
Dusk brought a chill, and a gust of wind swirled a plastic bag
around the lot. Down at the stoplight, a young black woman in a
mini skirt stepped into the street and leaned into the open
passenger window of a red Lexus.

One of the church’s broken-out windows had
been boarded up. Another hadn’t, and a taped-up towel covered the
broken pane. Charlie stepped up to the church door. It had been
kicked in and the lock was busted, so it didn’t close perfectly and
swung loosely on its hinges. As he entered, his boots crunched
glass. He smelled smoke and stared into a dark corner of the
sanctuary at a woman and a small boy partially illuminated by
late-afternoon sunlight cutting through a side window. Coals glowed
in a stubby-legged charcoal grill. Smoke danced through sunbeams on
its way out an open rear window.

“This is our place, asshole,” the woman
said.

“I’m just looking for someone.”

“Nobody here but us.” She stood and appeared
ready for a confrontation. He suspected there might be a weapon in
the paper bag she held by her side.

“He works for Redeemer,” Charlie said, taking
a step closer. As his eyes adjusted, he realized that he was gazing
at the porn star from Satalin’s DVD. The home wrecker. Trouble’s
whore. Why did this woman keep showing up, like a thumb in his eye,
to remind him how shabby his life was? She was most likely
diseased, living here in an abandoned church, mocking God. Not that
Charlie was particularly fond of the Almighty right then, himself.
And she
was
good-looking. Still. She had a lot of nerve.

“What’s his name?”

“I call him … he’s the dishwasher. At least
he was on Thanksgiving.”

She shook her head. “The kitchen was open
again on Christmas. Just that day, though. Anybody worked over
there,” she said, nodding in the direction of the Hunger Palace,
“is out of a job.”

A second child emerged from the shadows. The
girl. Charlie plopped down on a pew and rubbed his face with his
hands. There was no reason for him to be in this place. He should
go. Yet here he was, troubled by feelings of both revulsion and
desire.

The porn star was close now, blocking the
light flooding the western window. She wore jeans and a gray
sweatshirt. No makeup. This gave her a winsome, vulnerable
look—just someone who did what she had to do to survive. “I know
you,” she said.

“We met on Thanksgiving,” Charlie said. “I
helped you and the kids in the serving line.”

“Oh. OK.” Her tone was warmer, softer. Her
accent wasn’t Southern, just nondescript American. She drew nearer.
“That’s right. Redeemer knows you. You been in a fight?”

“Somebody tried to shoot me.”

“No,” she corrected. “Somebody
shot
you. They just didn’t do a good job.”

He smiled. She reached down to touch his
face. He pulled away, embarrassed, ashamed—and afraid of her, too.
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “It’s not
safe here.”

“I can take care of my own.” The boy
approached and stood at his mother’s right hip.

The girl tiptoed up behind them. “You’re
always hurt,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember your names. I’m
Charlie. Charlie Sherman.”

“I’m Tawny Carson. This is Wyatt. And Romy.
Short for Rosemarie.”

“Hi,” the children said in unison.

“Hi.” Charlie gazed at frizzy-ponytailed
Romy, who wore a ratty pink sweatsuit. Such a beautiful little
girl. The boy reminded him of Ben, for some reason. These poor kids
deserved better than this. “Anybody can come in, just like I did.
It’s not safe.”

“It’s not safe anywhere, Charlie. You should
know that.”

He nodded toward the grill. “Is that what
you’re using for heat?”

“For now.”

“I could fix the door,” Charlie said,
surprising himself. “In the morning. The front window, too. But you
could … you’ve got to watch out for carbon monoxide.”

“I’ll be OK. Unless you got a better idea
where we could stay.” She raised an eyebrow.

“It … you could freeze to death here,” he
said. “Do Romy and Wyatt have sleeping bags?”

“We got blankets.”

“Look … I have kids their age. I’d like to
get them some sleeping bags.”

“I’m not stoppin’ ya. That wouldn’t be right
for me to stop you, if that’s what you want to do. Just don’t tell
anyone we’re here. They’ll take my kids away. No telling where
they’d end up.”

“OK.” He paused to think. “You want one,
too?”

“A sleeping bag? Sure, if you’re handing ’em
out.”

“I’ll get some food, too.”

He stood and inched slowly out of the
pew.

She touched his arm and whispered, “You can
fuck me when you come back. Any way you want.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m ascetic.”

She nodded knowingly. “I know how that is. I
don’t feel so good myself sometimes.”

He drove off and considered not coming back,
but he couldn’t break his promise to the kids. Maybe she didn’t
belong in Redeemer’s house. On the other hand, if Trouble hated her
so much, maybe she wasn’t all bad. Somehow he was caught between
the two of them without understanding why. But a deal is a deal,
and that little girl was worth saving. No doubt.

* * *

It was bright and chilly Saturday morning
when Charlie showed up at the Holy Way House with a new framed
steel door and a window-sized plywood sheet tied atop his Volvo.
Inside, he saw the sleeping bags he’d brought by the night before,
but no people. He slipped on gloves and, despite having no legal
right to do so, started tearing out the old door. His hand injury
slowed him down. So did tearing the wrapping off the new tools he’d
bought. He fixed the broken window first—or at least nailed the
plywood over it.

It was noon before Charlie wrestled the new
door into place, and he had nearly finished shimming it level when
a black sedan pulled into the lot, causing him to flinch. Out
stepped a man in a suit, wearing a fedora and trench coat, looking
like a darker version of Lieutenant Kinderman from
The
Exorcist
. He stood with his feet apart, arms akimbo. Charlie
set down his carpenter’s level and gave him a questioning look.

A broad grin spread across the man’s face.
“The elusive Mr. Sherman. Nice of you to fix Redeemer’s door. I
wonder if he broke in himself one night when he forgot his keys.
Don’t get me wrong,” he said, holding out his hands, palms down, as
if to calm the waters. “We love him. But he is what he is.” He
stepped up onto the porch. “I’m Detective Sanders, Atlanta Police.
And in case you haven’t noticed—and judging by your face, I’m
guessing you have—somebody would prefer it if you weren’t
breathing. I’d like to talk to you about that.”

“Hang on. There. That should hold.” Charlie
dropped his screwdriver and shook hands gingerly, wincing at the
detective’s viselike grip.

“You’re the most interesting person in the
world right now, you know.”

Charlie shrugged. “I had an interesting week.
How’d you find me?”

“I didn’t. He did,” Sanders said, pointing
across the street to a patrol car sitting in a warehouse parking
lot. “We have an APB out on you. Nothing to worry about,” Sanders
said, holding up a palm. “I just have some questions to ask.”

“I’ll talk, so long as I can keep working.
I’m not going anywhere.”

Sanders looked around. “Fair enough. I
imagine you’ve had your fill of cops.”

“I was handcuffed by three different law
enforcement agencies Thursday,” Charlie said, beaming proudly.

“On one day?” Sanders chuckled. “Those are
Redeemer-type stats. You should be proud.” He pulled out a white
notepad. “No need for that today.”

The interview proceeded, punctuated by
Charlie’s grunts and groans as he leaned in to drive screws by
hand, regretting his refusal to buy a cordless driver.