Pastor Needs a Boo (28 page)

Camille Franklin sat in her million-dollar home staring at the phone. She did not know how Xavier had found out about Jimmy Gordy. Camille wasn't even all that enamored of Jimmy. She only fooled around with him because he had mad skills behind closed doors, and she knew Xavier would be pissed off that she was sleeping with the head of the Usher Board at his own church.

Plus, Camille knew Xavier would get mad because Jimmy was ugly. Xavier would not be able to figure out why she was attracted to the man. He would never figure out that the main attraction was simply that it would make him mad.

She swung her feet back and forth, admiring the black-suede platform pumps with the rainbow-colored soles. Nobody had a pair of shoes like these, because they had been handmade especially for her by a cobbler in Spain. Camille liked the shoes so much that she purchased four more pairs—blue, chocolate, red, and gray. Five thousand USDs a pair—and the shoes were worth every single penny spent on them.

Camille Creighton Franklin was rich. She wasn't in the 1 percent, but she certainly had enough money to put her a little bit ahead of 15 percent of the population. Who cared about being a 1 percenter? Didn't folk realize that folk in the top 5 percent had some serious cash? A 1 percenter like Warren Buffet had lunatic money. A 5 percenter had stupid money. And a 12 or 15 percenter had enough money to wipe their butts with a C-note on special occasions.

Despite her wealth, Camille was miserable and in a very painful marriage. Spending money on things most people couldn't afford to even think about made life more bearable for her. About the only overpriced purchase Camille regretted making was Xavier. Sometimes she wished she had made better use of her cash and gotten herself a cheaper man.

“Xavier, I am going to tell you this one time and one time only,” Luther Howard began.

“Discipline your wife. When the new ruling goes through, you will not be able to divorce and run for bishop in the Gospel United Church. And you can't divorce your wife once you've been elected to the episcopacy and hold on to that seat.

“We cannot succeed in our plans without you. So Mrs. Franklin had better get with the program, and fast. And tell her to end it with that ugly, hyena-looking man she is sleeping with to get back at you.”

Xavier's mouth fell open. That was Camille's reason for sleeping around with Jimmy Gordy? Xavier knew he was fifty times better looking than Jimmy. And Camille was walking around acting she was boo'd-up with somebody who looked like Idris Elba.

“What? You believed there was something about Jimmy Gordy that Mrs. Franklin was attracted to, Xavier?” Luther asked.

Sonny and Marcel were superquiet. While they agreed with Luther, they also knew that there was another reason for that affair. Jimmy Gordy was an ugly brother who was tappin' that tail on the wife of a fine brother. He had some skills in the bedroom that probably should have been packaged and marketed on a TV infomercial.

Xavier was upset and didn't want to show it. He went to the bathroom, hoping it had cooled down since Luther's extended stay in it.

Luther stared at the closed bathroom door. He knew Xavier wasn't the sharpest preacher around. But the brother had been in the clergy business for a while. He should have a better handle on what motivated people to do things.

He hoped this plan wouldn't end up being a messed-up scheme that disintegrated into a fiasco. Because the people he worked for were meaner, scarier, and way more evil than the people he defended in court. They wouldn't even just kill them. They would kidnap and torture their entire families and
then
kill them.

 

Chapter Nineteen

It was sad that the only preachers Luther Howard liked and respected were the ones he had to work against. Luther wished it were different. He wished he could respect Sonny, Marcel, and Xavier as much as he found himself respecting Denzelle Flowers and Denzelle's best friend, Reverend Obadiah Quincey.

Even though Luther Howard needed the help of wayward preachers, a part of him secretly wished there was something in these men that made them want to get him to turn from wrong to right. But he knew they were too dumb and greedy to even do that right.

People like Sonny, Marcel, and especially Xavier Franklin were always stupid enough to believe they could shift directions and be allowed to swim back upstream, because they had an epiphany midways through a corrupt business deal. The last man Luther ordered a hit on had signed the contract, taken Luther's money, spent it, and then had the nerve to try and make the contract null and void when he discovered he didn't like all of the terms. Luther would never forget the conversation with the man—it was just that funny.

That brother had driven up to Luther Howard's legitimate office suite in the laser red Saab 9-5 Sedan he bought with Luther's down payment money, looking ridiculous in a blue velvet Hugo Boss suit. The brother was built like a football player, and he had a gut. To this day Luther would never understand why that man thought it okay to stuff himself in a Hugo Boss suit. Anybody who knew anything about Hugo Boss suits knew they were not user-friendly to big, thick brothers with a gut.

The man had walked in Luther's office and said, “Howard, I want out. I had my cousin, Lil' Jeronimo, look over the details of the deal, and he told me some innocent people would lose their jobs, and maybe even get kilt.”

“You mean ‘killed'?” Luther asked him, wondering what possessed the brother to risk his life by blabbing that he consulted with a family member named Lil' Jeronimo on a man like Luther Howard.

“Yeah, dawg—kilt. Somebody could get kilt.”

“Is Lil' Jeronimo your cousin's real name?” Luther asked quietly, hoping the answer was no, even though he knew that was wishful thinking at best.

“Nahh. Lil' Jeronimo's real name is Jeronimo Jenkins Jr. He a junior. That's why his nickname is Lil' Jeronimo.”

“So his father, your uncle, is Jeronimo Jenkins Sr.”

“Nahh. His daddy ain't my uncle. Lil' Jeronimo is my play cousin. So technically we ain't kinfolk, but we still family. His daddy's name is Jerry Jenkins.”

Luther didn't know why black people always had to have a play mama or a play daddy or play cousin. He'd never met a white person who talked about his play mama. And why would anybody tell a play person about a deal like this?

“I see,” was all Luther could say. He was relieved to know Jeronimo Jenkins Jr. would probably be easy to find and get rid of. There was a strong chance Jeronimo Jenkins had a rap sheet, and there were folks in the community who had beef with him. How could that not be the case with someone named Jeronimo Jenkins Jr. and whose daddy's name was Jerry Jenkins?

“So you and your cousin.”

“Play cousin.”

“My bad,” Luther said, and then continued. “You and your
play
cousin have discussed this. And the two of you came to the conclusion that you want out because this is too down and dirty even for you? Right?”

“Correct,” the man said.

“So why come to me after spending my hard-earned money on your new Hugo Boss suit and brand-new Saab? Did it occur to you that I might take issue with that?”

The brother grinned and said, “You know what a Hugo Boss suit is? I knew you had some class, Luther. But this ain't no real Hugo Boss. It's a knock-off. Them suits cost too much.”

“Is the car a knock-off, too?” Luther asked with a frown. Did this joker really think he looked like a brother who didn't know his way around a hip designer suit?

“Dawg, you so crazy. Of course this ain't no knock-off car. It's a Saab, dawg. I bought it because it's one of those upscale types of cars. It screams old money. 'Cause old money thangs don't bring too much attention to you—know what I'm sayin'?”

If Luther didn't have to order a hit on this fool and his cousin, no, play cousin, this mess would have been downright hilarious.

“So, what you're telling me is that a bright red Saab isn't noticeable. And that a car made by a company that has filed for bankruptcy and suspended making new cars spells old money?”

The brother got quiet. He didn't know all of that about his new car. No wonder he was able to name his price when he bought it from the man who owned the chop stop. Who knew?

“Dawg,” Luther began in a cold and hard voice. “
You
called
me
with this deal. My agent told you from the beginning the potential casualties associated with this kind of situation. I know she also asked if you were down for this, because that's how she rolls.

“So, here is what I suggest. You and your play cousin, Lil' Jeronimo, better get me my money. And then, you might want to get ghost.”

“I'll have your money back to you in six months.”

“Not good enough,” Luther countered. “I want my money in six hours.”

The brother's face went gray. He didn't know how he was going to get ninety-four thousand dollars in six hours. He didn't even know how to get it in six months. He was just talking trash to buy some time.

“You look kind of upset, dawg,” Luther said. “You don't think you can make it happen?”

“Naw. Oh, hell. What I mean, what I mean is, yeah. Yeah, I can make it happen, dawg. They don't call me the Wiley Coyote of Charlotte for nothing.”

Luther rubbed that spot between his eyebrows. He sighed. The brother may have been the Wiley Coyote of Charlotte, North Carolina. But he was going to have to turn into the Roadrunner to outrun the bullet that was going to be aimed at him very shortly.

“You a'ight, dawg?” the brother was saying, breaking up Luther's concentration. He hoped what he said would make sense to Luther Howard. But it didn't look like he was making much headway with the man. His cousin had told him to pray before he came to the office. He was so glad he brought the Bible his cousin's baby mama's sister's boyfriend had loaned them.

“I'm fine,” Luther responded in his courtroom voice. “I guess I'm a bit worried about you and your cousin.”

“No need to worry about us, dawg,” the man said nervously. “Look, I want to read you something from the Word. It will make you feel better, and it will help you understand where I'm comin' from. Know what I'm sayin'.”

Luther didn't blink an eye.

“I tell you what,” the brother said. He was sweating hard and had dark spots under the arms of that ill-fitting, velvet “Hugo Boss” suit. “Why don't you tell me what scripture you'd like to hear me read?”

“I want to hear the verse that talks about when you have to walk through a valley with some death shadows following you all around. You know which one I'm talking about?”

“Yeah. Yeah, dawg. You talkin' 'bout the Twenty-third Psalm. And shadows don't follow you in that scripture, it's—”

Luther raised his hand and said, “Just read it to me.”

“Okay. I'm gone read from the New Living Translation Bible. So it will sound a little different to what you might expect, dawg.”

“I always thought the King James version was the one people liked.”

“Not always, dawg. Some folk like it broke down for them in another version. So, here goes: ‘Even when I walk through the valley of death, I will not be afraid … for you are close beside me. Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me.'”

“I want you and your cousin to remember that scripture just like you read it to me. You will find it a great comfort to you in the coming days.”

“Luther, you still with us, man?” Sonny asked. Just moments ago Luther was looking like he could chew a handful of nails like it was some chewing gum. Now the brother was acting like he wished one of them would go straight preacher on him and bring a word or a sermon up in this room.

“I'm fine. Just processing some information.”

Luther studied Xavier. He said, “How much does this other woman mean to you? Can we help you keep her close but still in the honey on the side spot? Or will it take a whole lot more?”

“Well, I guess I could…” Xavier began.

“Xavier,” Sonny said, not in the least bit interested in hearing about Xavier and that skank, Tatiana Townsend. Right now, he was sick of Xavier and his women. He continued, “You are aware that Denzelle Flowers is running for bishop? He has money, he has a campaign team, and Obadiah Quincey is his campaign manager. Theophilus Simmons and Eddie Tate are his fundraisers. Right now, they are planning the first major fundraising and promotional event. And from what my spies have told me, it promises to be a big hit.”

“So what does that have to do with me?” Xavier snapped.

“Everything,” Luther answered in a very calm and quiet voice that had deadly chill laced through it. He was glad for the change in venue. They were focusing on Camille and Tatiana like some women gathered around the kitchen table. And that was starting to get on Luther's nerves.

Xavier was about to offer an apology but was stopped by Sonny Washington's firm hand on his shoulder. He got the message fast. The worse thing he could do was let on that Luther Howard frightened him.

“You see,” Luther continued, satisfied that he had gotten his unspoken message across to Xavier. He hadn't missed the transaction between Xavier and Bishop Washington. Luther had to give the bishop some points. Sonny Washington couldn't be punked easily.

“Denzelle Flowers has everything to do with you. There is only one Episcopal seat that will become available at your Triennial General Conference.”

“I thought there were two,” Xavier asked, now looking to Sonny Washington and Marcel Brown for some answers.

“There were,” Marcel responded evenly. “Bishop Conrad Brown in the Twelfth District decided to stay through one more term. And Bishop Jefferson is still stepping down, but he has been granted special permission to continue to serve as bishop for another year. He will share his responsibilities with Sonny, who has three years left before he'll have to retire.”