Booker looked over at Pompey and said, "You tell him how we know, since it started with you."
"Bishop," Pompey said, in a low voice that sounded like he was chewing on some food. "I heard a few fools running their big mouths, so I sneaked and followed them. They went over to see Bishop Caruthers about the club."
"But did you actually hear them? How would you know that was their business with Bishop Caruthers?"
"Bishop, has you never seen no thugs doing business on a street corner? Let me tell you something. Thugs is always tryin' to be slick but they will up and display all they business to someone with any interest in what they doing."
"And you are sure the men were preachers?"
"Bishop Jennings, a preacher at a conference is easier to spot than a wino standing in front of a liquor store."
Rev. James started laughing. What Pompey said was so true. Preachers at conferences, Annual and Triennial, could be seen by a blind man.
"Besides, I know Rev. Sonny Washington, and that there pretty-boy preacher from Detroit . . ." Pompey shook his head back and forth trying to remember Marcel Brown's name.
"Theophilus, Eddie—you know the one I'm talkin' 'bout. That boy who gone marry Mother Harold's old spoiled grandbaby."
"Marcel Brown, Mr. Pompey?" Eddie asked.
"Yeah . . . yeah . . . that's the boy. Well, anyway, they the ones. Then, I come and tell Booker."
"That's right," Booker picked up. "So Pompey followed Marcel Brown, and I followed Sonny Washington. Last night, when y'all was over to the banquet, Sonny Washington went over to the Clayton Funeral Home. That's where the club is."
"Cleotis Clayton's new place?" Theophilus said. He should have known a Clayton was in the middle of this mess. "And here Willie was, testifying a few months back on how he had returned to the church."
"Sure, he come back to the church," Booker said. "He came back lookin' to make a whole heap of money off it.
"So," Uncle Booker demanded, "we told all y'all mens of God"—he waved his arm around the room, pointing to Theophilus, Eddie, Murcheson, and Bishop Jennings—" 'bout this devilment happening right up in church. What y'all gone do 'bout it?"
"We're gone need something to back this up," Rev. James said. "All these years I been knowing you, I believe you, Booker and Pompey. But these preachers have a lot to lose. You know they not gone let you go up and say they involved with this club without putting up a good fight. And a mess like this bound to tear apart the denomination."
"That's right," said Theophilus. "All we have so far is an overheard conversation—which Marcel and Sonny can and will deny—a witness who saw them talking to Bishop Caruthers, and a visit by Sonny to the Clayton Funeral Home. That is not a lot to hang such serious charges on."
"You mean, you want proof?" Pompey said. "We can get that."
"How can you prove it?" Eddie asked.
"Eddie Tate," Uncle Booker answered for Pompey. "Now, we all may look like some country Negroes and we just may be some country Negroes. But we got plenty of sense and know-how. Me and Pompey, we is some slick Negroes—always been slick, haven't we, partner?"
Pompey and Booker started laughing and slapping palms with each other.
"Yes, me and Pompey," Booker promised. "We country Negroes gone get you all the proof you need."
Chapter Twenty-two
PRECIOUS POWERS SAT AT THE TINY TABLE IN ONE of the offices at the preachers' club, staring at the record book in front of her. Marcel, who was terrible with numbers, had asked her to make sure the record books were in order, so he could keep up with the money made by the club. Precious was surprised when Cleotis Clayton agreed to Marcel's request to let her go over the books. But even his openness didn't ease the feeling in her gut that there was something up with this agreement—that a lot more money was being made than what was showing up in the books, money Cleotis wasn't splitting with anybody.
She had been sitting at the table for half an hour, trying to force herself to get to work—pushing receipts around, flipping through the record book, and then slamming it shut. Marcel paid her well, but not well enough to make her feel okay about what she heard less than an hour ago. She opened the record book and started adding up the numbers, pounding the keys of the old adding machine so hard she knocked off a sparkling red fake fingernail.
"Shoot! I knew I shouldn't have used that old five-and-dime glue on my nails," she thought, putting her throbbing finger into her mouth—dried, nasty-tasting, cheap fake fingernail glue and all.
Precious continued to suck on her throbbing finger, tasting the bitterness of the glue, and used her pain as the excuse to cry over what she had heard when she had gone to Marcel's hotel room. She was about to knock on the door, just to check on something with him, when she heard him with some hollering, moaning fool who sounded a lot like Bishop Giles's wife, Jackie. And Precious stood there listening long enough to make sure there wasn't any doubt about what was going on.
"You devil, Marcel Brown," she whispered to herself. "How could you mess around on me like that—and right up under my nose? You ain't nothing but a low-down, dirty dawg."
She blew her nose and painfully mentally replayed the sounds she'd heard coming from the room. The worst was hearing, over all Jackie's carrying on, the exact same groan Marcel released when he was with her. That trifling, two-timing dog had lied to her, saying that she was the only woman who could make him groan like that. She wiped away another tear, taking care to rub the wet mascara from around her eyes.
"Low-down, dirty dawg," she mumbled again and started adding the numbers up so fast until she feared that she missed something. She stopped and then started up again at an even faster pace.
"It serves him and them other pimps-in-trainin' right if I go and mess up these books tonight. That dawg deserves whatever trouble he gets."
Marcel practically pushed Jackie Giles out of the bed, rushed her into her clothes and out of the room. He didn't want to have to linger with her, cuddling up and talking trash just to make her feel like she was special to him. He had already begun to regret their affair, between the payoffs to Otis Caruthers and the funeral home scheme he had gotten roped into. No woman was worth all that, but he was afraid to say no when Jackie Giles showed up at his room. She was one of the most conniving women he had ever met, and the last thing he needed, with everything else that was going on, was trouble with Bishop Lawson Giles.
His daddy had always told him that chasing tail was an art he needed to learn. Said that a man should always be able to discern when the hidden costs outweighed the benefits. How he wished he had not been so hardheaded and listened to his father.
The minute the taillights of Jackie's car disappeared, Marcel ran back over to the club and straight up to the office where he had left Precious working. He desperately hoped that she was so busy with the books that she had not come trying to find him when he was holed up with Jackie.
Precious opened the door, looking delectable in her black pedal pusher pants and sleeveless red shirt. Marcel stared at her a few seconds, resisting the urge to run his hands over her shoulders and then bend down to lick each one, tasting and savoring the silken sweetness of them. It was a shame he had worn himself out with Jackie Giles because Precious sure did look like she had some awfully good loving in her tonight.
He walked into the room and playfully tugged at the bouncy, curly ponytail she wore high on the top of her head. A few dark tendrils had escaped, making her sweet, round face look adorable. He pulled her over to him, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her right shoulder. It tasted just like honeysuckle.
"Precious, Precious, Precious. What in the world am I going to do with you, with your fine, sweet, delicious self? You know something," he said, unbuttoning a few buttons on her shirt and planting soft kisses on her collarbone. "Right now you taste so good until I think I want the whole meal rather than this little snack."
At any other time Precious would have just melted from the heat of Marcel's inviting
kisses. But not tonight. She turned away to make sure she wouldn't betray herself by throwing what she knew about him and that Jackie Giles up in Marcel's face. She had to be real cool and play this one out, with the feeling of her guts in her hands.
So she sighed softly and then took a deep breath and let it out slowly, giving the impression that she was in serious need of his attention. Then she turned back to face Marcel, who had made himself quite comfortable on the couch that was in the room. As much as she hated to admit it, he looked good in that expensive golden brown, jersey knit shirt that hugged every inch of his chest and shoulders. She forced herself to say, "Ooohh, honey-baby, you are looking at me so good-like until you running my temp-ture straight up through the roof," without choking on those words.
She watched him as he shifted around on the couch like he was making room for her, taking note of how carefully he was searching her face and said, "Anything wrong, honey-baby? You know you looking at me like you got something on your mind."
At first Marcel didn't answer. Instead, he put on his cool, seductive smile, and then lowered his voice down to that decibel level that almost always got him what he wanted from a woman.
"Precious baby, what's wrong with me is that you are sitting way over there, looking at me with that sweet face, and running up my temp-ture."
She let that jive talk settle in her ears and then stretched her body—arching her back, reaching her hands up in the air and then back behind her head, and poking out her pelvis— like she always did when Marcel was getting next to her. She was simply amazed at her own performance.
Marcel decided to lower his lashes down over his eyes—a signal that Precious was getting next to him. Then, coming up behind her, he rubbed her neck with expert hands.
"Precious, I believe you have been working too hard. Your neck is so tense until I don't think this little massage will do the trick." He slid his hand inside her shirt, and rubbed her back. "Ummm, sweet thing, your back is tight, too. I think I should order you to take the rest of the evening off and give this sweet brown body the kind of attention it needs."
Precious couldn't believe this fool could be so bold and cocky! Here he was, rubbing all on her like he hadn't just gotten what had sounded to her like a very, very good piece of tail. She was so mad at Marcel she could have spit tacks right out of her mouth if it wasn't so important to keep up this little game and see how far he would go. She kept her cool, moving her head around like she was enjoying his massage, and leaning her head back so that he could see how much she was enjoying it on her face.
She smiled at him. "Honey-baby, I've got so much to do tonight until I couldn't possibly stop to be with you. I have to balance these books and as much as I hate to say this, you gonna have to take care of me at another time. Okay, honey-baby?"
Marcel smiled, hoping that he looked disappointed enough to hide the relief he felt over this announcement. He was exhausted. Jackie Giles had been all over him, over and over and over again. After that marathon session with her, he didn't even want to think about being all wrapped up with some woman. He gave a low laugh, stroked his chin, and said, "Well, baby, as much as I hate to admit this, you're right. It's going to be hard doing without your loving tonight, but we do need for you to get those books together. I guess I'll just have to go and take a cold shower or two to cool down. Hope I can last through the night. Would hate to have to tip out on you to keep it together until I can get some of your good stuff, baby."
Precious wanted to smack Marcel down on the floor and then kick him in his tail for handing her that mess. She thought to herself, "Humph, that heifer must have wore out his sorry behind. And just look at him standing there, lying and grinning like he is feeling so bad that I got to work tonight. I wonder just who he think he talking to—that tight-lipped woman he engaged to?"
As soon as she thought about Marcel's fiancée, she had to stop herself from grinning at the idea forming in her head.
Marcel kissed Precious on the cheek and walked over to the door. She watched him go with love all over her face, but as soon as she heard his footsteps retreat, she went and got her purse off the bed, digging around in it until her fingers touched a tiny piece of paper. She pulled it out of the bag and immediately went over to the phone, dropped her purse on the floor, and dialed the number of a certain guest suite over at Virginia Union University. When Marcel had the nerve to get all up in her face, playing her for a fool, she realized that the best way to get back at him—to hurt him where it would hurt the most—was to call up his fiancée and tell her everything.
Precious laughed softly and thought, "Now if I was one of them trifling women, I would have been all over him. But this, this will teach his no-good, low-down, dirty, lying self not to ever up and try and mess with me again."
She removed a big gold hoop earring and put the receiver back up to her ear just in time to hear his fiancée's voice on the line.
"Hello."
The cultured, crisp, and cold sound of Saphronia's voice made her lose her nerve. Precious looked at the telephone, not knowing what to say to her.
"Hello."
Precious hung up the telephone and rubbed her forehead. She had not counted on Marcel's fiancée sounding so intimidating—that woman's voice could have put a freeze on some ice. She sat next to the phone for almost five minutes, trying to work up enough nerve to call her back. Then she realized that Laymond Johnson, Bishop Caruthers's henchman, would be coming by soon to find out how much money was owed him this evening. She couldn't risk having him overhear her talking to that Sapphire woman on the phone.
Precious dialed the number again. This time the hand on the other end snatched the telephone off the hook and the hello was so cold that Precious swore she saw the frost off the woman's breath coming right out of the receiver. She was nervous and said with some hesitancy in her voice. "Uh . . . uh . . . I just called you to inform you that your fiancé is cheating on us."
"I beg your pardon," Saphronia said. Precious sat perfectly still for a few seconds to gather her wits and said one more time, "I sayed that I called you to inform you that your fiancé . . . is . . . cheat-ing . . . on . . . us. Now, did you hear what I just said, Sapphire?"
Saphronia was tired and definitely not in the mood to deal with anybody's foolishness tonight—especially if it had something to do with Marcel and another woman. She thought it best to play dumb and get off the telephone as quickly as she could. She said, "I do not have the slightest idea concerning who you are and what you are talking about. But there is one thing that I know for certain. It is that you are an improper-talking nuisance, who has dialed the wrong telephone number in a moment of extreme confusion."
"Sapphire, wait," Precious insisted, knowing that Saphronia wouldn't pick up the phone if she called again. "Just listen to me a second and don't hang up."
"Why not?" Saphronia snapped, her irritation growing each second she remained in this conversation. "You do not even know me. If I heard you correctly, you are trying to reach someone named Sapphire and my name, slow woman, is Saphronia. Can you say that? Sa-phro-ni-a."
"Shoot," Precious thought, remembering how many times Marcel had stopped to correct her about Saphronia's name. She was amazed at herself for ever mistaking this stone-cold heifer for a Sapphire.
"Look, Miss McComb. That is yo' name ain't it?"
Saphronia didn't answer but she didn't hang up the telephone, either.
"Uh huh. So now, like I just sayed, you gone marry Rev. Marcel DeMarcus Brown, right?"
"I applaud you on this one. It appears as if you were able to remember his name."
Precious chose to ignore that cut and continued talking.
"Look, just give me a moment to tell you a few things about your man. In fact, me and you needs to talk face-to-face because I just caught his roaming butt red-handed in the act, if you can figure out what I mean by that. You see . . ."
Saphronia chose to ignore that cut. Of all the telephone calls she expected to receive at th
is conference, she never thought she would get one from one of Marcel's disgruntled women. She knew all about Marcel's reputation but assumed that all that womanizing had taken place before their engagement. But this was a woman calling her, mad because she had caught her almost married boyfriend, boss, and pastor cheating on her.
". . . And,you know Sapphire,I mean, Saphronia," Precious was saying, "I think it is time we got together to put a fix on Marcel's bumpin' 'n' grindin' behind."
Saphronia started laughing, suddenly amused by the absurdity of this entire situation. Marcel had definitely gotten his "bumpin' and grindin' " behind into some hot water when he was caught cheating on this woman. Her voice had a sliver of warmth in it when she said, "Your complaints about Marcel are quite valid. But before we continue with this conversation, I need to at least make sure that I know exactly who it is I am talking to."
Precious sighed with relief—she couldn't believe how hard it had been to get through to this woman. She looked at the clock again and realized that she was running out of time. She lowered her voice and said hurriedly, "I think you already know that it's me, Precious Powers. But, Saphronia, I gotta go right now. I think I hear someone near my room and I don't want anyone to hear me using this phone on my work hours."
Precious got off the phone as soon as she heard Laymond Johnson's heavy footsteps in the hall. She was kind of scared of him and didn't know what he would do if he found out she had called Marcel's fiancée about catching him in bed with another woman. He had some connection to Bishop Otis Caruthers and could mess with her money. She let him knock several times before she went and opened the door. When she finally did, he stood over her sulking in the doorway and looking like he wanted to say something to her about making him wait. She saw him gaze over her shoulder, letting his eyes linger on the couch. She looked up at his face and he gave her that old ugly grin she hated. She thought he had a whole lot of nerve acting like he was expecting something other than what he came for.
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