Between Brothers

by C. Kelly Robinson

  Confused by the question, O. J. decided to give a straightforward guess. “Oh, we all have that one that got away, sir.”

  Grier’s grin was so wide it looked like it would split his face. “Eight, Peters. Eight women I had wrapped around my admittedly conniving little fingers, before the Lord brought me to my senses. You see, son, you ain’t doing nothin’ I ain’t already done, and more. And for that matter, I always knew Carla was no Snow White herself. The issue here, son, is respect. Next time you wanna take up with my daughter, just give me some warning, will ya? If she’s gonna be tomcatting around, I’d prefer it be with a fella I know somethin’ about. I got no problem with that. I just don’t wanna find out about it from someone else. You know how foolish that makes me look?”

  His curiosity piqued, O. J. shifted in his seat, crossing his legs to compose himself. “Just how did you hear about all this?”

  “Well, let’s see.” Grier was now reclining comfortably in the leather chair. “Rev. Archibald had been tellin’ me for months that you were involved in some lascivious activities with members of the church, but he could never give me any names. I imagine now that was out of respect for Carla. Anyway, I’d been blowin’ him off, you know, saying that maybe you had some of that in your past, but certainly the Holy Spirit had helped you overcome it by now.” Grier snuck a sheepish smile O. J.’s way before continuing.

  “You see, Peters, I could never be too straight with someone like Archibald when it comes to young brothers and women. Archibald is one of those men who ‘saved’ himself for marriage because he had no choice. Nobody wanted his scrawny behind until he met his plump little wife. So he finds it easier to be judgmental about someone like you. I could never tell him about your escapades, or mine for that matter.”

  O. J. respectfully leaned in toward the desk. “So you found out about Carla and me from someone else?”

  “Oh, yeah, that. Well, O. J., you may not wanna know how I found out. Someone has it in for you, son. I walk into my office this morning, and what do I have on my desk, but a big ol’ manila envelope, ominously addressed to ‘Pastor Grier, from a concerned citizen.’ Thought I was receiving a package from the FBI, CIA, KGB, or somebody.” Turning momentarily toward the oak credenza that lined the wall behind him, Grier turned back to face O. J. and plopped an open, legalsized envelope in front of him. “See what you think.”

  Pulling out the contents and rifling through them, O. J. was amazed at what he saw. There were six photographs. The first showed Carla parking her car outside his house. In the far right corner of the photo was stamped “9:32 P.M.” The next photo showed him walking her to her Saturn, which was parked in the same space. She still wore the same outfit, but now the time stamp showed the hour to be 8:12 A.M. The remaining photos bore additional evidence of his time spent with Carla: a rendezvous at the Holiday Inn in Hyattsville; a dinner date at the Prime Rib restaurant on M Street; even a midnight cruise on the Potomac. Examining the plethora of evidence, O. J. was reminded that he had become very sloppy in the last month. When his fellow dogs in the ministry heard about this, they’d be sure to let him have it.

  “Whoever it was had me dead to rights, that’s for sure.” He was starting to feel like he could take Grier’s assurances at face value now. “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll find out who engineered this trickery. I hope you understand, Pastor, that I’ve always treated Carla respectfully, and I always will.”

  “Son, you not tellin’ me anything my little girl hasn’t already told me. She was not embarrassed in the least when I called her about this evidence. Her only concern was for you. That alone told me I had no cause to assault you. Now, if my baby had any complaints . . . well, no need to go there, is there? Peters, I’m gonna tell you this one time. Your time at Light of Tabernacle is winding down. Soon you’ll be training to take over your daddy’s church when he retires. As you embark on that journey, I want you to remember one thing that makes the difference between a successful ministry and a failed one.”

  His eyes affixed to Grier’s, O. J. couldn’t hide his anticipation. “What would that be, Pastor?”

  “You’re only human. Never forget that, son. You’re only human. Some of these folk out here will try to tell you that you’re less of a preacher because you have faults. Never fall under their spell, Peters. The minute you do is when you start behavin’ in ways that get you caught with your hand in the cookie jar, like today. Stop the secret-agent shenanigans and live your life, boy. You may always love the ladies a bit too much, but you better believe some of your other colleagues in ministry will be tempted to dip their hand into the money till a few times more than they should, or skimp on outreach and other vital activities of the church. We all got shortcomings, but in God’s eyes all sins are equal. That’s why he came up with grace in the first place! Tell other ministers about your temptations. They’ll pray for you to overcome them, but they’ll also have your back when you slip up. That’s the only way to build a successful ministry, son. Don’t ever forget it. Now, clear out of here before I decide to pick up where we left off a minute ago!”

  Returning Pastor Grier’s bright grin, O. J. hopped from his seat and clamped hands with his beloved mentor. The mingled scents of his Dax wave pomade and Grier’s Old Spice cologne intoxicated him with pride and utter relief. They had weathered this storm with their friendship intact.

  After Grier closed their session with a short prayer, O. J. released his grip and headed for the door. “God bless you, Pastor. I better get downstairs and review my message for tonight’s service.”

  “You do that. If Sister Parker asks where I am, tell her I’ll be downstairs shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.” As he clicked the office door closed, O. J. headed toward the main sanctuary with a new zest in his step. When he got home, he would have to touch base with Larry about the mysterious manila envelope; odds were whoever had supplied Grier with that gift was also responsible for the speakout fiasco. After they put their heads together and devised a response, he could hit the town with his boy Preston to celebrate. He had just survived what he had always expected would be his personal Judgment Day. He couldn’t believe the amount of grace Grier had shown him; surely his father, if crossed in any comparable way by an associate minister, would have had the perpetrator removed from the ministry without a moment’s hesitation. Why had Grier been so lighthearted? Slowing his step, O. J. began to realize the lining of this cloud might not be silver.

  “You’re only human.” That was exactly what Grier said. As if he was speaking to a run-of-the-mill, degenerate kid off the street, one with no self-discipline or selfcontrol. Was that all that should be expected of a young minister of God? Didn’t most of Paul’s letters preach that those who claimed to bring the word of a Holy God to the people, regardless of age, were to be held to a higher standard of conduct? Although O. J. didn’t think he’d ever truly bought into that line of thinking, something inside him wouldn’t let him brush the thought aside. Suddenly Brandon’s words from their earlier argument came rushing at him. What had the Choirboy said? He’d called O. J. living proof of “the failure of the black church.” What did Pastor Grier really think of him? It was one thing to refrain from judging a young minister’s occasional indiscretions, but the pastor’s words had endorsed everything about O. J.’s lifestyle, maybe because it was no different from his own.

  What would Momma think? The thought made O. J. consider his life in a new light. His mother hadn’t lived long enough to see him accept “the call,” and he knew she would have been thrilled to see him preach. But what would she think of how he treated women, how he lived his life outside the pulpit? Somehow he knew neither she nor his father would be too happy if they knew the real O. J. As he knelt at the secretary’s desk outside of Grier’s office, O. J. made a decision. In a few years, once he had finished showing off in the pulpit and playing the field, he was going to make his parents, especially Momma, proud. She deserved that much. He was not going to be like Otis Grier thirty ye
ars from now, an old freak who cloaked his nature in a phony spiritual image. He would be the real thing, the genuine article. Someday.

  In the meantime, he still had some livin’ to do.

  In her room a few blocks east of the church, Keesa Bishop pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail, fastening it with a greasy metal clip she’d been using every day for the last two weeks. She looked at her pallid skin, her slightly protruding belly, and the circles forming under her weary eyes. The glow of pregnancy was proving elusive so far. But that was okay. She’d stewed long enough over what to do about the man who’d put her in this situation, and she was finally going to make a move tonight. She knew how the nigga operated. He’d probably preach at tonight’s service, go out drinking with Preston and his girlfriend, and then pick up some girl to bone for the night.

  As Keesa pulled on a black sweatshirt to match her wool pants, she whispered to herself, “Stay cool.” There was no more sense rehashing what he’d done to her, or what he was planning to do to the next sister who shared his bed. After tonight, O. J. Peters would never disrespect a black woman again.

  CHAPTER 25

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  WILD NIGHT

  Stirring the gooey shrimp-and-chicken mixture that sat amid the clumps of rice in his Hunan Garden takeout container, Larry tried not to look too closely at Sheila Evans. They had been poring over their research into the Ellis crisis for the last hour, but he was just beginning to appreciate the fact that Sheila suddenly had a new look. When he picked her up from Bethune Hall, she had emerged without the trademark baseball cap and sweat suit. Her hair was swept up into a curly oval of waves, her face was adorned with light touches of makeup, and her outfit looked like it had been freshly purchased from The Limited. Larry was sure he was just imagining that she might have made a special effort for his benefit. He and Sheila were strictly about business; he in order to salvage his good name and Ellis Center’s fortunes, she to grab one last big scoop before leaving the Sentinel. Sure, they’d talked on the phone every day this week, but the conversation always eventually turned to Ellis.

  Sheila punctured Larry’s introspection. “Larry, are you listening to me? Hello-o?”

  Snapping to attention, Larry got up from the living room couch, where he had been perched since they returned to his house. “Sorry, Sheila, you know I’ve got a lot on my mind these days. Could you repeat that one last time?”

  “Larry, how could you miss what I just said? It’s the first real lead as to who might have it in for the center! All those other articles from the Post, Times, and the Defender just laid out the fact that the center was going to be high and dry without the government funds it lost.”

  Larry crossed his arms and grinned. “Well, duh!”

  “ ‘Duh’ is right. But what I was trying to tell you before, Mr. Whitaker, is that the last couple of Post articles I found detail a dispute between Ellis and a local businessman. Have you ever heard of William ‘Buzz’ Eldridge?” “Can’t say I have. Come on, Sheila, I can’t know everybody.”

  “Well, you should know this somebody.” From her position on the floor, leaning against the couch, she held a copy of the article out to him. “This story, dated two months ago, details a dispute between the Ellis board and Eldridge. Eldridge is some type of real estate developer, owns a few buildings downtown and in northern Virginia. Apparently he was so hot for Ellis’s land that he stormed into a city council meeting and asked for support in buying Ellis out.”

  “Is this guy a brother? Why’s he feenin’ to invest in the hood?”

  Sheila smiled playfully. “Stop and look at his picture. It’s there in the article, Larry. He’s an older white gentleman who wants to buy up land in Shaw.”

  “What for? Gentrification? There is some of that going on round these parts now. Just over on the other block from us, as a matter of fact.”

  Sheila shook her head. “No, in the article he’s quoted promoting some Develcorp Living Complex. Apparently it’s a modern high-rise apartment and shopping complex Eldridge wants to construct on Ellis’s land. He goes on and on about how it would be clean, affordable housing for underprivileged residents. He’s interested in that area of town for some reason, and I guess he thought he had an opportunity when Ellis lost its funding.”

  Larry scanned the article attentively. Providing contrast to the picture of a crusty, pasty-faced Eldridge was a smaller photo of Sheryl Gibson, from the same city council meeting. According to the article, she attended personally in order to rebut Eldridge’s claims. Larry read a quote attributed to her in a postcouncil meeting interview: “Ellis Center will never be for sale. Mr. Eldridge seems to be under the mistaken impression that we will accept a fat price for the land, without any commitment to help see that the center actually survives.” When further pressed by the reporter concerning her resistance to Eldridge’s offer, Sheryl was quoted as saying, “Even if we took the money, we’d have no place to go. We are committed to staying in the Shaw neighborhood, and there is simply nowhere else in the community with land and space available. Ellis will never be for sale.”

  “You’ve got to give it to the sister, she has guts.” Finishing the article, Larry returned to his perch on the couch, just above Sheila. “How many of our community leaders, here or anywhere else in the country, would resist a fat-cat offer like that?”

  “Those who are more committed to their mission than to being comfortable.” Sheila eyed him impatiently. “Do you wanna hear why Eldridge wants that land so bad, or not?”

  Larry leaned back into the couch, preparing himself. “But of course. Please, do go on.”

  “I did some more digging through the archives of the Post and came across a story from December. Apparently Eldridge’s company is among several developers bidding for a piece of that riverfront development project.”

  “The one right outside Southwest D.C.? That’s supposed to be the envy of every businessman in town, everybody wants a piece. It’s gonna compete with Georgetown. Full of shops, restaurants, theaters, you name it. My pops has a couple of buddies here in D.C. tryin’ to get in on it. They say a little pinch of a project like that could make or break a small bidness.”

  Sheila turned her head enough to make eye contact. “Well, Eldridge would probably agree. After some diligent searching using the old LEXIS-NEXIS at the Sentinel, I found an article on Eldridge’s company, Develcorp, from a local real estate magazine. Apparently he has an impressive history restoring properties and reselling them at a profit, but he’s up to his armpits in debt. This article made it pretty clear his company’s hurting to get in on some major projects. And they even mentioned they have high hopes for the riverfront project, to the tune of one hundred and fifty million in potential business.”

  “Doesn’t sound like he’d let anything stand in the way of getting in on that, huh?” Larry reclined, lacing and unlacing his fingers in nervous energy. “Don’t suppose there’s any tie between the riverfront and Ellis?”

  Sheila grinned playfully. “Why am I doing all the work here? Eldridge talked in the article about his desire to do the Develcorp complex. But he brought it up only when he was asked how he planned to comply with the city’s desire to give the riverfront project business to contractors who employ or somehow contribute to the welfare of minorities and women.”

  “Well, Lord knows putting up a property in Shaw would make ol’ Buzz seem like he was down with the people,” Larry said with a laugh. Even in the late nineties, affirmative action continued to rise up and bite the Man on the butt when he least expected it. Larry had his own doubts about the pros and cons of quotas and racial preferences, but as long as white racial preference was the unwritten rule in America, he figured affirmative action was a necessary evil. Still, it seemed ridiculous when government entities made demands on contractors that they themselves couldn’t live up to. Eldridge’s record on minority hiring and charitable giving must have really sucked, Larry thought, if he had to build a freakin’ apart
ment complex to prove his commitment to the black community.

  “Well, we have our motive now, don’t we?” Larry sat up and rested a hand on Sheila’s shoulder. “Time for me to take over, sista girl. I really appreciate all your help. I hope I’ve made that clear.”

  Turning to face him, Sheila locked eyes with Larry. “But this doesn’t prove anything. How are you going to make something out of this?”

  Reluctantly withdrawing his hand from her shoulder, Larry leaped to his feet. “Bottom line, Rolly Orange is playing funny with the center’s finances. Now, understand, if I had the time and opportunity, I’d take this cat out myself. There’s no financial mismanagement he could spin that I couldn’t pick apart. Unfortunately I’ve still got an election to win, a couple of finals, and some, uh, personal business to handle in the next few weeks. Not to mention deciding what job to take for the summer.”

  The hesitation before Sheila responded told Larry he had caught her interest with the reference to his personal life. Why was he flirting with her?

  Sheila wasn’t smiling but her eyes were. “Well, exactly how will you attack Orange with this info about Eldridge?”

  “There’s the work. I’ve gotta tie Eldridge to Orange, somehow. Come on! A millionaire developer who’s worked closely with city government in the past wants Ellis out of the picture. Now a former councilman with a shady past is playing with Ellis’s books. Coincidence? I think not. We just have to prove it.”

  “Prove it to whom?”

  “Sheryl Gibson. I know Sheryl is legit. If we bring her credible evidence, it’s on.”

  The sound of a key in the front door startled them both. Relaxing as he saw Brandon step into the foyer, Larry laughed at himself. What was he expecting, some goons sent by Eldridge?

  Dressed in a navy blue Claiborne sport coat, matching slacks, and white rayon shirt, Brandon fit the image of a dashing Highland brother coming in from a night on the town. Stepping into the foyer behind him, Monica Simone made for a flashy but striking counterpart. Larry was aware of the differences that separated these two, but he could see they made a cute couple.