Pastor Needs a Boo (16 page)

Marcel got out of the limo, let the bellman get his bags, pulled out his wallet, and peeled off two fifties. He put them in LaTina's hands and said, “There's more where that came from. I need some information. Will you let me know what you hear when you're around this group of preachers in the hotel?

“Will do,” LaTina told him. “I have folks in some good spots. They will pass on information if I can put a few bills in their hands.”

Marcel put five twenties in her hand. He said, “This should get you started for today.”

“Yep,” LaTina said, as she went to get into the car. She came back around and pulled her business card out of the breast pocket on her uniform.

“Here, Reverend Brown. Call me if you need anything. I can get you some ribs, liquor, and other good food. And I can also take you wherever you need to go while you're in the city. Just call me, okay?”

Marcel smiled at that enterprising little missy, and said, “You can count on it.”

 

Chapter Ten

Marcel checked in, went up to his room, showered, put on some comfortable clothes, flipped on the TV, and got in the bed. He was supposed to get ready for the conference's Interdenominational All Saints Banquet later that evening, but he was tired and not in the mood to attend one more fancy church banquet.

Marcel Brown had been going to fancy church banquets since he was a little boy. He didn't want to change from his T-shirt and athletic pants into a tux just to hear one more speech on why we are here, suffer through a high-ranking preacher heap accolades on his or her great denomination in black churchdom, eat, not be able to drink some good whiskey, talk the same-old-same-old with preachers he didn't even like, and force himself to pretend like he was having a holy ghost good time.

Oh, he almost forgot about the choir he'd have to suffer through. Almost every time he had come to a banquet for this conference, they always had the stiffest, most traditional and opera-sounding local choir singing. There were so many good church musicians in Atlanta. He couldn't understand why the coordinators of this conference would not get a choir that somebody really wanted to hear.

The choir at his late father's church sang like that. There were times when Marcel wanted to throw a brick at them on a Sunday morning. He envied the pastors with those choirs that sang the kind of songs that made an old reprobate like himself get up and start clapping.

He got the menu off the nightstand, ordered room service, and settled in for a quiet and peaceful evening. There would be plenty of time to get out there to wheel and deal with preachers. Sometimes Marcel wished for the good old days, when he could just go out and get into some dirt with some preachers looking for the same kind of adventure. Couldn't do that now—at least not out in the open. Technology had changed how that game could be played. Folk see you with the wrong people, and they'd get to documenting you on their phones.

He did not need to be in the middle of all of that drama waiting to happen; he was glad to be off to himself. When room service came with his food, Marcel ate, drank some liquor, watched an episode of
Scandal
, and then fell asleep.

The next morning Marcel was up bright and early and feeling real good. He picked out a gray three-piece suit with pale blue chalk stripes running through it. He then selected a dove gray shirt, a pale blue silk tie, and gray Detroit gators. He hurried up and dressed, and then went downstairs for breakfast. His gut told him that all of the information he would need would be right up in that restaurant with the overpriced cup of coffee.

Marcel was right, too. He spotted his target audience huddled over at a big round table off in a more private spot in the room. The hostess came over to him and was about to seat him at a table on the opposite side of the restaurant.

“Miss, it's kind of lonesome looking in that section. You think I could be closer to my fellow preachers over there?”

“You sure can,” the young woman with a head full of thick blond hair told him, and put him at the best seat in the house.

“This better?”

“Perfect,” Marcel said, and sat down at a table for two next to the huddle of preachers. He could hear everything they were saying, right down to the young preacher whispering, “You think that white girl wearing a weave? She has a whole lot of hair on her head, even for a white girl.”

“You over here asking about her hair, and I'm trying to figure out if that is her real booty. It's sticking out pretty far for a white girl.”

Marcel made it his business to look at that girl's behind. If he hadn't been so determined to get into their real business, he'd tell them the truth about all of that booty and where she may have purchased it from. But to interject that observation right now would halt the real conversation. The last thing Marcel needed was for them to gauge that he was knee-deep in their personal church business.

He ordered one of the fancy omelets on the menu, some orange juice, and coffee. The more he seemed engrossed in his meal and own business, the better. Marcel's phone buzzed that he had several text messages just as the waitress came with his coffee and orange juice. It was from his new best friend, LaTina.

Hey, Rev. Check out these pictures I'm sending you. The preachers at the table near you are all prominent in their denomination.

My friend in the kitchen, here at the Ritz, said thank you for the forty dollars. He really needed it to buy some school supplies for his little boy.

He said to keep listening. They have been talking some serious church stuff all week. His sister goes to the church pastored by the preacher in the plain blue suit.

Marcel studied the pictures and realized that they had just been taken. He studied the picture a moment and saw himself sitting off in the background.

Yep, I'm in the hotel,
LaTina texted.
Turn around real cool like, so no one will know that I'm sending you these messages.

Marcel smiled and did as LaTina asked. There she was in her uniform, watching the preachers and texting him all of the goods.

His phone buzzed with new messages.

The preacher in the plain blue suit is Rev. Tim Ealey. Keep your ear tuned in to him. He is the ring leader. I have to go. Break over. Hollah back at a youngun.

Marcel's breakfast had arrived. The omelet smelled delicious. He spoke grace over his food and dug in. The omelet was so good, it was almost heavenly. Marcel was glad he was eating, so he could listen while giving the appearance that he wasn't in their business.

LaTina was right; that Reverend Tim Ealey did have on an awfully plain blue suit. It was high quality. But it was so plain—nothing about the suit gave it any kind of flair. The brother even had on a stark white, FBI-looking shirt with a conservative navy and royal blue striped tie.

Tim Ealey was definitely the ring leader. It was clear he was holding court with those preachers, because they were quiet and taking notes while he talked. Marcel adjusted his chair so that he could hear them better. He wanted to know why this brother had those preachers hanging on to his every word.

“I,” Tim Ealey said in a deep and commanding voice, “I have met with all of our bishops, and they are going to put this matter to a vote this evening. It took a lot to persuade them that this was the right thing to do, but I managed to get them all to see the light.”

One of the preachers at the table took a long sip of his orange juice. Marcel knew that move. That brother didn't agree with one word Reverend Ealey was saying. In fact, the young preacher looked like he wished he could pimp slap Tim Ealey.

Marcel was straining hard to hear this. It had to be good if those preachers were scared to oppose this brother.

“Reverend Ealey,” the young preacher gulping down the juice said. “So, you are telling us that the bishops have actually agreed to overturn the bylaw that would allow divorced preachers to run for bishop and hold an Episcopal seat. I don't think it wise to overturn something like that. Folk don't need to feel compelled to stay in bad marriages just so they can become a bishop.”

Tim Ealey shot the young man a deadly look, and threw back his head in a gesture Marcel was sure Ealey thought made him look deep and pensive.

“My good, young brother. I see that you do not truly understand the necessary, theological ramifications of this reform.”

“With all due respect, Reverend Ealey, we are talking about reinstating an early-twentieth-century ruling for a twenty-first-century clergy. How does that have anything to do with what you just said?”

Marcel almost fell out of his chair. That young brother was going to find himself serving in the assistant pastor capacity for many years after taking on a pompous, think-he-know-it-all brother like a Tim Ealey. Preachers like Ealey liked to present that they were all noble and down with the people. But they were some of the biggest snobs Marcel had ever encountered. He'd bet some money that Reverend Ealey lived in a fancy gated community, and that “the people” had better not show up at his front door talking about hangin' out with him.

Marcel could just look at Tim Ealey and tell he had a very personal and self-serving agenda on the other side of this so-called reform and upgraded theology. Ealey was getting something out of this new law, and it wasn't satisfaction for doing the Lord's work, either. Marcel could only wonder who had Reverend Tim Ealey tucked neatly in his (or her) back pocket. Ealey was getting paid to run this game on his denomination, and he was earning every single penny of that under-the-table, tax-free cash.

Marcel Brown didn't have issues with a preacher getting his hands on some extra cash. He had practically made a career of that kind of thing. But he did have a problem with Ealey sitting up there acting like he was some kind of noble warrior for the regular people with this new law. Listening to Tim Ealey talk all of that crazy junk and representing like he used to write sermons for Jesus made Marcel want to backhand him.

“See,” Tim was saying in an exaggerated and condescending tone, “you are shortsighted and do not understand why this is so important.”

“No, I don't, Sir,” the young man answered politely. “I don't know why our church would want to risk passing over a good candidate for bishop just because he or she went through a divorce. That just strikes me as wrong, and mean, too.”

“The law, my young preacher, will not stop a good man or woman who has experienced divorce from running for an Episcopal seat. It will stop them from remarrying, therefore providing them with an otherwise unattainable opportunity to serve the Lord without any distractions.”

“That's messed-up,” Marcel thought. Tim Ealey was unbelievable. And that young preacher was right. That rule was mean, lacked compassion, and was purposely designed to stop some good folk from running for bishop.

The perception of bishops had been changing steadily. People did not shout them up and down like they did years ago—making bishops think they were so much more special than other people in the church. And talented preachers no longer felt like getting elected to serve as a bishop was the pinnacle of their careers. A rule like this could make some preachers who should run for bishop decide their denomination wasn't offering enough to give up being able to get married again after a divorce.

“But, Reverend Ealey. What about those good preachers who find themselves faced with a divorce they couldn't prevent? What are they supposed to do if their wife or husband just ups and walks away from the marriage? Become a eunuch?”

Marcel wanted to tell the young blood to tread carefully. Ealey was mean. But the young brother was really put out with this, and didn't back down.

“If,” Ealey said in a tight voice, “a bright and talented preacher in our church finds that he or she will have to go through a divorce, they cannot remarry and run for bishop or remain a bishop if their ex-spouse is still alive when they make this kind of decision.”

“Kind of like Miss America doing something folk don't like and having to turn over her crown to the first runner-up, huh,” the young preacher said dryly.

“Think what you like,” Ealey stated. “But if a preacher remarries and the spouse is still alive, they will have to give up that purple and all of the privileges that go with it.”

“What in the world is wrong with that joker?” Marcel thought, and studied Tim Ealey for a moment.

Marcel discerned that Tim Ealey was mean and thought he knew everything because he was smart and had some kind of doctorate degree. He figured correctly that Ealey must be married to a woman he couldn't stand, but he wouldn't leave her because Tim Ealey worshipped his status in the church more than he did the Lord. Marcel suspected Reverend Ealey had secret affairs that no one other than Ealey and his secret women knew about. This fool was miserable, and he wanted everybody else to be miserable with him.

Reverend Ealey reminded Marcel Brown a whole lot of Reverend Larry Pristeen in his own denomination. Pristeen was all up in everything, acting like he was so saved and holy, and he had more room keys from churchwomen than the most notorious preacher ho. The only reason Marcel had not cussed out Larry Pristeen was because he might be useful. And he knew Larry Pristeen was so ambitious that he would align himself with an old and powerful reprobate like a Reverend Marcel Brown if he believed it would boost his status and power in the Gospel United Church.

“This meeting is over,” Tim Ealey said, as he stood up, and he made sure that every man at that table was standing with him, waiting to trail behind him when he left the restaurant.

“Wow,” Marcel thought. “All of this time I'm thinking the Gospel United Church was filled to the brim with crazy preachers.”

That was one insane law Reverend Ealey was pushing on his denomination, but it would be a great weapon to use against Denzelle Flowers. Denzelle was divorced, and he was also the kind of man who would want to remarry. Denzelle's ex-wife, Tatiana, looked real healthy, and not like somebody on her way to glory to meet up with the Lord. A law like this in the Gospel United Church might be just the thing to get Denzelle Flowers out of the race for bishop.