Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (25 page)

“You'd be scared too, if you used some of that education you got. Think about it, baby. Somebody killed that preacher. From what you told me, whoever it was did everything but nail him to a tree. I don't know about you, but somebody that evil scares me to death.”

There were three of them, a short, portly Latino, a burly white man with a shaved head and tattooed neck, and a gangly black man with a biblical beard in a well-worn three-piece suit. They had set up church on the K Street Mall at the busy intersection of 10th Street, in sight of the golden glow of the capitol's dome. The white man was preaching a surprisingly gentle sermon on love, as the Latino man handed out religious tracts to passersby. Most refused them. The black man paced the sidewalk, his Bible open and his head down, softly mouthing a passage. I stopped in front of a floral shop to listen. A middle-aged black woman dropped a dollar into the collection basket at the feet of the Latino preacher.

“I wish they wouldn't give them money. That only encourages them.”

I turned to see the florist standing in her doorway. I said, “I don't know, I kind of like street preachers.” Although Daddy was more partial to street musicians, both he and Mother taught us kids to respect street preachers. “You never know,” they'd admonish us, “how the Lord might return.” We were encouraged, forced in my case, to make an offering, to drop our hard-earned and tightly clutched nickels and dimes into the baskets or old hats at their feet.

“They keep customers away with all that shouting and screaming.”

I said, “One of them was killed yesterday.”

“I know. That was unfortunate. I didn't mean to imply that I wanted to see them harmed or anything. It's just that they don't need to be on the streets. When it comes to violence, they're just as vulnerable as the homeless. Finding bodies in downtown doorways doesn't help business either.”

The black man had switched to handing out the religious tracts. He headed toward us, and the florist retreated to her shop. He handed me a
tract. I thanked him, introduced myself, and asked if I could talk to him. His name was Rev. Royal McFall, and he pastored a small church and soup kitchen in Del Paso Heights, but his true passion was his street-preaching ministry. I asked him about the preacher who had been murdered.

“I knew him,” he said. “Lord rest his soul. He hadn't been preaching 'round here long, but I can say he truly was a man of God.”

“Did he pastor a church locally?”

“No, as I said, I believe he was new to town.”

“Did you know where he was from?”

“No, can't say that I did.”

“Did he know anybody here? Were there people who came to hear him preach, people who seemed to know him?”

“Not that I can say. It's a hard fought battle out here for every soul won. Most people go out of their way not to hear us. Look around you, what do you see? People all but putting their hands over their ears, trying not to hear the word.”

“What about hecklers?”

“We welcome them. When they start heckling, it means we're getting through, touching them in their secret places, making them uncomfortable with the knowledge of their own sinfulness. A heckler's merely a sinner crying out to be saved.”

“Some of the merchants aren't too happy about you being out here.”

“The money changers? I fear them not. Na'er one of them has the heart to do what I saw done to him.”

“You saw the body?”

“I'm the one found him.” He pointed to the bank on the corner. “Right over there in the doorway. He was cut so bad, the only way I could tell it was him was by his shoes.” He paused and swallowed. There was something sad about the way his Adam's apple bobbed on his thin neck above his frayed collar. “You see, he had bad feet and he cut holes in his shoes for his corns.” He dropped his head and prayed. I bowed mine too, and said amen when he finished. I thanked him and promised to visit his church some Sunday.

I was about to leave when I thought of something else. “What did he preach about? Did he have a theme?”

“Redemption.”

Rain had started to fall. The Latino man was preaching. He stood unprotected, his arms outstretched, his face upturned, singing praise in a crystalline tenor so sweet it made my throat ache.

According to Miss Annie Mae the drive down Highway 99 to Pit Pat should take only a couple of hours, and maybe it would have if it hadn't been for the rain. It came down in wild, slashing, sheets, effectively disabling the Beemer's windshield wipers, and limiting my vision to a car length or two ahead. I'd driven back and forth for an hour on the stretch of highway between Corcoran and Wasco before I saw the turn-off for Pit Pat.

The town's single street was appropriately named Main. I pulled into its only business, a two-pump gas station slash convenience store that proudly proclaimed itself a purveyor of Royal Crown Cola and “fried fish plates.” A shiny, black SUV of some improbable make, perhaps a Lincoln or Cadillac, and an old workhorse of a pickup were parked in the gravel close to the door. I parked as close to them as I could and got out, cursing myself for forgetting my umbrella.

Three men leaned over the counter. My entrance froze them in a kind of gangster modern tableau. The hefty one on the business side, in the burgundy velveteen jogging suit accessorized with gold chains, bore a fleeting resemblance to Barry White—if you squinted. The two on the customer side were younger, thinner, and more hip-hop inclined, sporting baggy pants, oversized jackets, and fanciful headgear.

The Barry White said, “Can I help you, ma'am?” He seemed annoyed by my presence, I a potential customer. I was annoyed he called me ma'am.

“Can you direct me to the home of Mr. Rollie Meeks?” I said.

“You know where the graveyard is?”

“I'm from out of town.”

“JC go show her,” he said to the young man wearing the Peruvian shepherd's cap. JC walked past me and out the door without a word. I
followed. He climbed into the SUV, and I scrambled to get in my car and to get buckled up so he could lead me out into the darkness.

It would be overly generous to call Mr. Rollie's house a shack, and a little too harsh to call it a lean-to. It was his home, and Mr. Rollie welcomed me to the listing, tin roofed, one-room structure with the courtly grace of a country gentleman. “I don't get too much company,” he said. “Least not none as pretty as you is.” We sat warming our feet in front of his kerosene stove. I had the seat of honor, an old vinyl recliner that only reclined; he had an old chintz armchair. He smiled, and I smiled. I had more teeth than he had, but I didn't hold that against him. I sipped my Lipton's tea sweetened with a little molasses, and he sipped his. Outside the storm went virtuoso, tap-dancing on the tin roof and whistling through the cracks of walls papered with newspapers and old
Look
magazines.

I explained why I was there. Mr. Rollie shook his head and said, “Everywhere she go, she stirring up mess.” He said he didn't know where his cousin was, but he chuckled and added, “She ain't gone far, that I know for sure. Honey always been funny like that, she likes to hide close in. When we was kids playing hide-n-go seek, she the one hide close to home base. You be counting, and turn around to go looking for folks, and she right there behind you. You didn't expect it. She ain't never got tagged out neither.”

“Have you heard from her lately?”

“I ain't seen hide nor hair of Honey these last few years. Last I heard, she supposed to be taking care of her sister's baby. Child got into a little trouble with the law, here back. Can't rightly remember her name, though.”

“Is there anybody else I can talk to? Do you have any more family around here?”

“It's been my experience it don't matter where you go, somebody always know some of your peoples or somebody know somebody else that know 'em. That ain't the problem as I sees it, 'cause everybody know it's a small colored world.” He winked at me, and pulled together the frayed smoke jacket that he wore over two shirts and a cable knit sweater.

I tried another approach. “Tell me about that killing in sixty-four.”

“Ain't nothing to tell. One man got killed, t'other went to the pen. Babies left without daddies, left to get grown and keep up the mess. Folks fight'n and feud'n, and Honey right there in the middle of it all.”

I'd finally gotten Mr. Rollie on the track I wanted, but I was having a hard time dividing my attention between him and what was going on outside. I'd heard something; I just wasn't sure what it was. It could have been the bogeyman, or the pattyrollers, or maybe just the storm relentlessly dismantling the little house. I believe it was then when I decided that country living wasn't for me. I couldn't wait to get back to the streets—of suburbia.

Oblivious to his competition outside, Mr. Rollie continued, “When John Henry got out and went 'round apologizing to folks like they taught him in that steppin' program in the pen, I thought things was finally smoothing out. But, naw, that only kicked up more sand.”

You know that feeling you get when a sneeze is building, when it's just a vague sort of tickle? A vague tickle fluttered at the outer edges of my mind. Something Mr. Rollie had said was causing the tickle. I couldn't put my finger on it. I couldn't ask him to repeat it, because I didn't know what it was. If I could have held still and concentrated it might have come to me, but the storm made me jumpy. I had settled in listening to Mr. Rollie when a blast of light hit the house, illuminating every crack, and turning Mr. Rollie's eyes into gorged-out holes. I choked off a scream.

Mr. Rollie sighed and said, “Them boys again.”

“What boys?”

“From over in Corcoran. They call theyselves devil worshipers. Come round here stealing stuff from the graveyard.” He sighed again, and went back to his story. “John Henry came here apologizing for taking some girl from me near on fifty years ago,” Mr. Rollie said. “I told him, man I don't even remember no Ethel Lee, much less begrudge anything y'all had going. I can tell you one thing, if she'd a been mine, she'd a stayed mine. Ain't no doubt that. But them babies, they grown now, Mason's babies, they the ones you should be apologizing to. I said it straight to his face; you owes Quinton Anthony Mason's babies some apologies too.”

The light hit us again. It was like some alien craft had locked onto us with its tractor beam. I could almost feel the little house shudder. I lost it then, I rolled off the recliner, landed on my knees, grabbed my purse, and
was at the door. I had to get out of there. I said, “I'm sorry Mr. Rollie, but I have to go.”

“I don't think you want to chance going out there, not less you got one of them SUV things. The mud's about a foot deep by now. You best wait till morning.”

I didn't care about the mud. I didn't care about the rain. I didn't care about anything but getting as far away as I could from Pit Pat, devil worshipers, and mysterious lights. And I certainly wasn't going to spend the night with Mr. Rollie, no matter how dapper he was in his smoking jacket, and no matter how much Lipton's tea sweetened with molasses he plied me with. I found my keys and bolted out the door. The rain hit me full-face. I didn't care. I stepped off the porch and sunk up to my knees in mud. It sucked at my legs and wouldn't let go. This time I screamed. I was wearing my brand-new ankle-high Pilner boots, and when I thought about what the mud was doing to them I tried not to weep.

Cooing to me like I was a baby who'd taken a little tumble, Mr. Rollie helped me inside. The mud had sucked off one of my boots, and I hobbled in, making squishing noises and trying not to whimper. I cleaned up the best I could, using the washpan of water Mr. Rollie heated on the kerosene stove. He gave me a pair of sleeves cut from a sweater, old-fashioned leg warmers, and an old pair of overalls. I gladly accepted both and immediately put them on. I reclaimed the recliner and allowed Mr. Rollie to cover me with a quilt he said his mother had pieced before he was born. He pulled a hassock up to his chair, put his feet up, and covered himself with another quilt. “I must apologize for the facilities,” he said, “but if nature calls . . .” He blushed and nodded toward a molasses bucket in the corner. I assured him that if nature did call, I wouldn't answer. We watched the hot stove's rosy glow in the darkened room, dozing off now and then. By the time morning came, Mr. Rollie had told me a story of murder and redemption and a man who only wanted to apologize.

“Mother will you listen, please. I told you the rain, dirt roads, I got stranded.”

“You could have called. I was worried sick.”

“I tried, but I couldn't pick up a signal. Will you just listen? What is Toni's last name?”

“What good is that phone if you don't use it?”

“Mother, this is important. What is Toni's last name?”

She told me, and everything just fell into place. How could I have missed it?

“Mother get over to Toni's house, now. I should be there in an hour, but you've got to get there right away. Call an ambulance and have them meet you there. Mother, you hear me?”

She'd already hung up.