Saint's Sacrament - Sins of the Father

by Laveen, Tiana

  Several people stood and broke in enthusiastic applause as Saint wrapped up his discussion.

  “I was told this evening that I would be speaking to aristocrats, to high-class, upper echelon people.” He grinned, welcoming a few sporadic chuckles. “I was told to please not use excessive profanity because this isn’t a conference, this is for scholars who happen to be in interracial marriages and wish to take back the information to the masses and share it. Initially, I said ‘Fuck you.’.”

  The crowd burst with laughter.

  “But then I agreed to it, and the reason was to show diversity and depth. This is not the style I prefer, but apparently, some people do not believe I can speak eloquently, that I have the education I do, imparted from some of the best teachers in this land and that I myself have mentored some up-and-coming therapists who are now doing great work around the world. We have discussed very serious matters this evening. I have focused mainly on the image of interracial relationships and racism that pertains directly to that, as a reflection of our societal woes and problems. I want to close, however, with speaking about the karmic orgasm, and how all of us, all races of people on this planet, begin life from an ejaculation and what that actually means.” He cleared his throat.

  “We all were created by two people. Unless you were formed in a lab or cloned, you were created by two people…a man and a woman who made love. Even if you are the product of a pimp and his whore, a trick and a prostitute, a child conceived from rape or a one-night stand, two people got together and had intercourse, and whether it was consensual or not didn’t stop the ejaculation from occurring. One person at least, the man, ejaculated. This is important because…” Saint moved slowly across the stage. “We have demonized sex in this society and we’ve done so even more so when a black woman opens herself physically to her non-black partner. Sex is natural. Sex is normal. Sex is the beginning of life. We corrupt it, turn it into something dirty, when everyone on this planet, came from the same means—an orgasm. How can we dirty something up that is so magnificent and efficient as well as physically, spiritually and emotionally fulfilling? When a woman has an orgasm right before, during or soon after the act of intercourse, it changes her vaginal pH balance. This will either help influence boy sperm, which are not as strong as girl sperm but faster, to make it to the egg first, or it will do the opposite; there are many factors involved. This is a somewhat provocative statement, however, I have a very good friend who is a well-known specialist in this field, and he swears by this.” Saint shrugged.

  “I do know that it is not foolproof, and other factors can influence such an outcome such as the overall health of both partners, genetic disposition of one sex over the other, timing of intercourse, dietary regiment, semen supply and quality and fertility issues. But I do know there is some truth to it because the timing of a conception is so fine-tuned, there has to be some reason for this, some logic behind it. Our sex means something in this society and what we interpret from that helps foster the mentality we have toward other races and our opposite sex.

  “The fact that we fight over white women being this, Black women being that, Asian women being another, shows we are missing the big picture as it pertains to our personal attractions and picking a partner. We were born with it.” He threw up his hands. “We then cultivated our attractions from various sources, and when that inherent attraction is violated, and we are wounded, our own orgasmic vibration is violated as well. So, some of us lash out at what we perceive to be our problem child. For some of us, that problem child is the person that we believe has caused us the most pain in life, and for some black men, this is the black woman. The problem here, people, is that our problems are many times a reflection of our own deficits. To analysis ourselves requires a higher level of exploration and understanding, and quite frankly, most human beings appear to be unwilling to go that route. Instead, we are enraged! We are angry about the soul purpose orgasm, the orgasm that got away!” He stuck his fist out as if to say, ‘black power.’

  “Being enraged is an emotion,” Saint said calmly. “Yet, anger is not seen as being emotional by so many men, and I was like that at one point in time during my own journey as well. Anger is seen as okay and we forget that it, too, is an emotion. Whether it is misplaced or not, let’s set that to the side. When we want something, or someone and they don’t, in our minds, meet the image we need them to meet for us to feel complete and fulfilled, we become emotional. This is true for men as well as the ladies in here who are arguing with black men about their perception of you…just stop it, okay?” He smiled as he held one hand up. “Just stop, because a wounded animal, who doesn’t know he is wounded, doesn’t want you to point out the arrow in his ribcage. He doesn’t want you to point out the fact that he stood in the line of fire. He doesn’t want you to bring up the fact he is bleeding out so badly because now he is in victim mode and a martyr, and the bloodier he is from the perceived assault, the more he can squawk, and the more fuel he has to smear his blood on the ‘problem child.’ You, black woman,”—he pointed out into the audience—“are not the problem child! You are the orgasm lost, the one that got away!”

  The room erupted, people clamored to their feet, whistling and cat calling. Saint waved to them and took his seat, waiting for the curtains to draw closed. It had been a good evening, a great evening. It was hard to stay in the moment though, with so much looming over his head, so much unfinished business. He needed some closure, he needed to taste someone’s tears, and he’d get his chance, in due time…

  ~***~

  “And that dates back to November 3rd, 2012, correct?”

  Saint nodded.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Aknaten. We need a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer for the record.”

  “Yes, it is not recent, it dates back to 2012.”

  “Thank you.” The agent looked down at his computer.

  “And the workmen’s comp. claims do not appear in these records.” The agent shuffled papers around in front of him, his brow raised curiously. “Can you explain this?”

  “I am not the Human Resources Manager, gentlemen.” Saint tugged at his collar while he tried to cool his nerves.

  “Yes, we’ve spoken to Mr. Ides but since this is your company, we wanted to get your testimony regarding the matter.” The agent had a slight smirk on his sourpuss, wrinkled face. He reminded Saint of a gopher—his jaws swollen, his face long and his eyes droopy yet oozing with judgment and delight.

  “I cannot attest to something that I do not know to be true or false. You cannot question me about a matter that I am not knowledgeable in and expect a comprehensive, accurate answer.”

  Saint translation: “Look you bitch-made, sun-beaten, rodent-looking mothafucka. I don’t know what the fuck you are talking about and why in the hell would I know how much any of these goddamn Rainbeaus’ workman’s compensation was? That’s like asking me how many times they took a piss!”

  Instead, Saint smiled and folded his hands.

  The agent moved on from the question. This continued for an hour more. Saint struggled in his seat. Some of the questions didn’t appear to have anything to do with the investigation, no relevance whatsoever. There were queries about his family vacations, Xenia’s income and his children’s schooling. He refused to answer several inquiries at his own discretion and lawyer’s urgings. He was on the verge of turning ugly, and surely the eyes would do something radical. He drank copious amounts of water but it did little good to extinguish his internal blazes of ferocity. When it was all said and done, he could no longer control himself. He stood, popped his arms and straightened his dark suit jacket, throwing a threatening glance at all the tight-lipped men in the room.

  “Oh, y’all don’t have anything to say now, huh?” He heard his own voice and didn’t recognize it. It sounded as if it were coming out of someone else—loud, deep in a valley, aggressive and mean. “I answered all of your bull—”

  “Dr. Aknaten. We will review the information provided and
come to a conclusion regarding the matter in the next two weeks. Please bear in mind, you are still under investigation.” The agent rose to his feet as Saint’s lawyer tugged on his pant leg, trying to get his client to chill. Saint swatted him away.

  “Yeah, you do that and let me tell you something,” he spat, pointing at the agent that had had the nastiest attitude. “If you ever ask me some shit regarding my wife’s spending habits and what my personal 401K entails again, I will get an attorney team together, someone ruthless and a regular ol’ headhunter that will make you regret the day you brought your weak asses in my face with all of these lies and trumped up charges! Ned here is awesome, but he has been playing nice with you sons of bitches! When it comes to folks like y’all, nice guys finish last…and I ain’t nice. No disrespect, Ned.” He shot his attorney a glance and was met with the man tossing his pen on the table and rolling eyes at him.

  “I’m taking you mothafuckas on, personally! I’m not scared of the IRS! I know you all are used to people shaking in their boots, trying to pay out shit and all of that, but you’ve fucked with the wrong person this time. I didn’t cheat the government out of shit! I’ve got the police on my ass and now this!”

  “Saint!” Ned barked angrily.

  One of the agents raised a hand. “Mr. Aknaten, you must—”

  “YOU!” He pointed at the man who’d interrupted him. “Shut the fuck up!”

  “Saint, that’s enough! I’m sorry, gentlemen, he is just a little upset and—”

  “I’ve been more than understanding and cooperative, and then you pull this shit, bring me into this fake ass investigation and expect me to beg and grovel at your feet? Oh no.” He laughed, “Not the kid! If I were guilty of these charges, I’d man up and own it, but I’m not!” He shook his head and snatched his briefcase from the table. “Saint doesn’t beg anyone for shit, and it damn sure won’t be the IRS that brings me to my knees! Now that, my friends, is a check you can cash, bank on and shove up your asses!”

  He stormed out the room, slamming the door behind him…

  ~***~

  Several days later…

  “You were right.” Lawrence slammed a stack of papers down on Saint’s desk in the wee hours of the morning. Saint stood off to the side of his office window, peering out at the modest traffic that wasn’t yet rush-hour heavy. “I still don’t know how he found her, though.”

  Jagger burst into the room without knocking, a thick five o’clock shadow on his face to go with weary eyes and a snarl. He slammed the door behind him and sat down, gripping his folder as he shot both men a look.

  “I can tell you how…Shianne. She didn’t even know that that was what she was looking for. Sinclair asked her to do some research for him, dig up some shit on you. She did it, and got Payton’s information, but it didn’t list your ex’s name, only that there was a docket number that never matured. He took that information and ran with it. He didn’t tell Shianne anything about that part. He just used her. Sinclair took it a step further, and got into the sealed records due to his connections, Saint.” Jagger rubbed his forehead, his eyes hooded. A sense of sorrow danced about him, though it wasn’t for Traci. “You never told us.”

  “It was a private matter and it’s a thing of the past. I don’t like talking about it.” Saint looked away, loathe to go down this road though he knew it was inevitable. He looked back at both men, and they simply stared at him. Thoughts from that horrific night swarmed his head.

  There was a heavy pause during which he turned back away from them to look at the blurs of strewn light as cars sailed past on the expressway.

  “Okay, well, he contacted her,” Jagger finally said. “I have the phone records to prove it, had my contact pull the records for me. He must’ve paid your ex, I presume, anyway. It is amazing to me how so many people will sell others out for the right amount of money.”

  “Almost everyone can be bought for the right price. It’s a fact of life,” Lawrence said dryly. “In any case, how do you wish for us to proceed? As it stands, the IRS is gunning for you, Saint, and…I hate to say this but it isn’t looking good unless we figure this out before they reach their conclusion.”

  Saint ran his fingers through his hair while his stomach knotted into a ball of nerves.

  “You have no way to prove anything against the allegations. There are in fact holes in our paperwork.” Lawrence threw his hands up as if he were defeated. “Call it shoddy accounting, call it lazy employees or just bad filing, but some of our evidence is non-existent, though we know we did nothing wrong. The key is to get the people involved to tell the truth, but that is a shot in the dark.”

  “We could be shut down. It could be so financially devastating, we could be forced to retreat. The only good part of this is that the police and IRS at least are still clueless as to what we actually do,” Jagger said. “We are still a secret organization.”

  “But that won’t matter if they destroy us financially. We have to have the money rolling in to keep afloat. James used so much of his own money at first to get the White Knights started. Now the Rainbeau Knights will go up in flames from this.” Lawrence grimaced. “And Saint, this could in fact go to trial and you could serve prison time if we can’t stop this train. One problem pops up, and another one does right afterward. This is serious, man.”

  “Hold on a second,” Saint said in almost a whisper as he put his finger to his lips. “I’ve been doing some thinking. Tonight, I want us all to meet at my house—all of the Rainbeau Knights, everyone. I don’t want to do it here—they watch us here.”

  Jagger and Lawrence nodded.

  “And I need to get the ball rolling now that I’m one hundred percent sure about her involvement. She is the key to this. She is the one that needs a little incentive.”

  “Who? Payton?” Lawrence leaned back in his chair, his brow raised as if he was ready to do some business.

  Saint smiled wide. “Oh, don’t worry, gentlemen. I will handle Payton personally. She has been in my thoughts, and I knew after I was back in New York that she was up to something. My dream helped solidify that.” He glanced at the paperwork on his desk then grabbed his cell phone.

  Saint kept that casual smile, secured it and gave it a pet name as he dialed a number.

  “Hello Payton, so sorry I got your voicemail. I’m sure you know who this is but just in case you don’t, it’s your old friend, Saint. You have exactly…” He looked down at his watch. “Thirty minutes to call me back, or I will be paying you a visit, taking the first flight available to New York...and you know that I will. Talk with ya soon…”

  ~***~

  The hot pink nail was whittled down to the nub. Payton sat on the edge of her bed, her robe wrapped snugly around her wet body. As she showered and prepared for her late workday, she’d heard her cell phone vibrating on the bathroom sink. No one called her before noon unless it was a client. She abruptly shut off the water while in the middle of shampooing her hair and lunged at the phone, forcing it to accidentally fall into the basin, twitching like an insect that had just met a burst of Raid. When she realized who it was, her heart sank and her belly filled with all sorts of shit, the kind of stuff worries and nightmares are made of. She knew that number….

  Finally, it went to voicemail and she prayed as she stood there, water droplets falling off the ends of her strands onto her face and shoulders, that he wouldn’t leave a message, that he’d simply disappear. Moments later, the voicemail lit up, alerting her to a new notification.

  Fuck!

  He’d left a word or two, all right. She leapt out of the shower, grabbed the phone and played it back. Her heart beat out a tune, one that was all over the place and heavy, hard, painful. It had no rhythmic direction but gravity seemed to get stronger as her legs slightly buckled and her body tried to hit the ground. She braced herself and made her way to her bed, wrapping her robe around herself, reaching for an ounce of comfort in the form of sage cotton with a matching sash. She hadn’t even both
ered to dry off and rinse the shampoo for her tresses. Instead, she sat there, her eyes glossing over.

  I can’t…

  Oh God! How did he find out?!

  She didn’t want to contact Sinclair; her business with him was done. The man had left her alone, the phone calls ceased once she’d pulled a few strings to get this tangled ball of yarn rolling. She felt secure that Saint could never link her to this mess, but she was wrong, dead wrong. She’d allowed Sinclair to fool her, to think there was no way her ex would connect the dots. She’d feared this at the beginning, but…Sinclair was adamant and confident. He had no idea…

  She continued to chew on that nail until a stinging burn brought her back to reality. The bleeding caused her to wince and draw back from the pain. She looked at the clock. Four minutes left until he’d go through with his threat to get on the next thing buzzing toward New York. Maybe she could get out of town; maybe calling Sinclair would actually help. No, none of that would change a damned thing. She knew after looking into his demonic eyes that one time, the man or whatever he was would find her no matter what end of the Earth she ran to. He’d commanded the birds to fly, the trees to blow and the animals to dash away as if the Devil himself had stomped his hoofed feet onto the land of the living to snatch souls before the end of time. Mother Nature recoiled from the man, so how could she ever be safe?

  Payton snatched the phone off the bed and returned the call, trying to keep her composure. She found herself on a bed of needles, wishing they’d just slice right through her and get this whole damned thing over with. She took a few breaths as the phone rang. Maybe she’d get lucky and the man wouldn’t pick up? Maybe he was calling about something else altogether? Yes…it was possible. She danced on a slimy slither of hope until she heard that all too familiar silky smooth voice.