by Joy Copeland
“Who would have thought it—Brother Jahi…a politician? I never liked politicians, but I want him to win. I expect this political stuff’s gonna change him.”
Judging by Stan’s expression, Zoie didn’t think Stan’s prediction of Jahi’s change meant a change for the better.
“Do you know how to contact him? I’ve got phone numbers, but he’s not answering.”
“Maybe that’s because he doesn’t want to talk to you,” Stan replied bluntly.
Zoie responded just as bluntly. “Stan, as I’ve told you, it’s not that kind of relationship. This is about the Shelter. If he wants to keep the Foundation’s money for the Shelter, he needs to talk to me ASAP.”
“I hear you, pretty lady.” Stan rubbed his chin again. “I suspect he’s working on his campaign. He’s what you call a late entry. He could be at that campaign office. And if he ain’t, they’d likely know where to find him.”
“Fair enough. You wouldn’t happen to have the address for that office, would you?”
“Hold on.” Stan went into the back and returned a minute later with a yellow campaign flyer with poor-quality pictures of Jahi and several other Democratic hopefuls. There was an address of a place on New York Avenue. “I don’t know why the folks at Mahali didn’t give you one of these. I’ve been to this place,” Stan said, pointing to the address on the flyer. “Had to check it out. It’s next to the dentist office. You can have this.”
“Thank you for your help, Stan. I know you want to do what you can for the Shelter.” She gave him a hug and left.
Under the shade of the café’s awning, it took a few seconds for Zoie’s eyes to adjust to daylight. When they did, she spotted Muwakkil leaning leisurely against his cab halfway down the block. She waved to get his attention, and he stood up. The men playing chess turned to look at her, and one of them tipped his hat. She smiled. Then she heard the faint tone of her phone signaling an incoming call, coming from her bag. She took out the phone and looked at the caller ID before answering. It indicated an unknown caller. She let it continue to ring until the missed-call message appeared on the screen. It didn’t look like a local area code, but then so many new area codes had been added over the years. Something told her to not call back. She pulled out the contact numbers Lena had given her. She had yet to enter Lena’s numbers into her cell phone. There was no match. Perhaps it was another threatening call.
Before she could check to see whether the caller had left a voice message, the phone rang a second time. Once again the caller ID indicated an unknown caller. This time, though, the number was different. Who was trying to get her? She let the call ring through the four-ring cycle, until her phone registered it as another missed call. Maybe it was Jahi. Had he heard that she was looking for him from either Tarik or Stan? Was he finally responding to her barrage of voice messages? Maybe the news of Ray’s death had caused him to surface. The person or persons who had burglarized her apartment and who had made the earlier threats on the phone would not leave a message. When she looked up again, she saw Muwakkil backing down the street. Muwakkil, the one who could be trusted, was coming for her. Thank God, she thought, because her knees felt a little weak.
Swallowed in a borrowed plaid robe, Frances Woods sat on the small couch in Queen’s living room. Queen’s brother, Mason, sat in a recliner to one side, his eyes glued to a soccer match on TV. Mason was a male version of Queen, though younger and with lighter skin. Frances Woods’s eyes shifted nervously from the TV screen to her surroundings. She certainly didn’t understand the game of soccer. So instead of watching the match, with hands hidden in the folds of her borrowed apparel, she let her eyes settle on Mason. She wasn’t sure which team he was rooting for, since he reacted exuberantly to most every cheer from the TV.
“I wish I had my own clothes,” Frances Woods said, talking to herself.
“You say somethin’, Mrs. Woods?” Mason asked.
“Just that I wish I had my own clothes.” This time she was louder. The statement alerted Queen, who came from the small kitchen.
“I wish you had your own things too, but what you had on smelled like smoke.”
“Oh, God, my house!” Frances Woods said. The horror of the fire was settling in. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Don’t go getting upset,” Queen said, bending down to give her a hug. “Mason, you’re going back over there. Check the place, and board up the kitchen-door area.”
“Yeah, sure,” Mason answered, his eyes never leaving the TV. “I got to see the rest of this match. When it’s over, okay.”
“Look, Mrs. Woods,” said Queen, “I tried to call your granddaughter at her home number, and I tried her mobile.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“No, I didn’t. I’ll try again in a bit.”
“Call her office,” Frances Woods said, sounding irritated.
“Calm down, Mrs. Woods. I don’t have that number.”
Frances Woods turned to Mason. “I know it’s a foundation, but I can’t recall the name right now.” She was flustered. “Mason, when you go back to my house, get the blue book on the side of my bed, near the phone. It’s got the number for my insurance company.”
“Sure, Mrs. Woods,” he answered, though his eyes remained glued to the screen.
In a sudden outburst, Mason jumped from his chair and pumped his fists and yelled, “Yeah! Yeah!” A corresponding uproar occurred on TV. Frightened by the suddenness of it all, Frances Woods shrank into the oversized robe.
“Don’t worry,” Queen said, patting Francis Woods’s arm. “This match will be over soon, and then he’ll go. When he gets back, I’ll go there and get you some clothes.”
Frances Woods sighed. “Guess it’s in the Lord’s hands.”
Chapter 34
Where’s Your Candidate?
Campaign headquarters for Khalfani for Councilman was a storage room in the back of J&J’s Barbershop on New York Avenue, next to a dentist office, just as Stan had described it. Plastered to one side of the shop’s window, Zoie spotted a poster that read, “Vote Khalfani for Ward 5,” and next to that was the same yellow candidate flyer that Zoie held in her hand.
Two of the shop’s three chairs were occupied. A third customer yakked away while presumably waiting for one of the chairs to free up. Being as small as it was, the place couldn’t hold more people without their bumping into each other. The two barbers, likely J-one and J-two, were busy at their craft.
“Here goes nothing,” Zoie said under her breath as the tinkle of an old-fashioned bell atop the door announced her entrance. The older of the two barbers, a good-looking man in his fifties or sixties, with neatly groomed facial hair, looked up and nodded a greeting. The waiting customer nodded a hello as well. Without a word Zoie smiled and raised her yellow flyer.
The barber pointed her to a door at the back of the shop. “They’re back there.”
“Thanks,” Zoie said. Through a rear door, Zoie found a storage area lined with cardboard boxes on metal shelving. The area opened into a space much larger than the barbershop itself. There were several desks and a wall lined with posters of Jahi and for Beatrice Meyer, who was running for councilman at large. Stacks of envelopes were piled on a long table. Another wall displayed a gigantic map of DC with the Ward 5 boundaries outlined in dayglow orange. The makeshift office seemed to be administered by two women. One was seated at the long table and stuffing envelopes, with a cell phone wedged between her head and her shoulder. The other one was sitting at a desk, busily checking one list against another.
“Ooh Lord!” said the woman talking on the phone. Her conversation just got louder. “I got to go. The cavalry has arrived. We can go to lunch.”
Images of Jahi stared at Zoie from every corner. The bold face of “a candidate who’ll stand up for what’s right.” Humph! But no Jahi in the flesh. Zoie rolled her eyes, disappointed that she hadn’t found him, but she was also relieved. What would she do when she did find him?
Zo
ie now had the attention of the woman closest to her, a senior citizen with a brassy red wig, a sallow complexion, and a dayglow orange blouse.
“Hi. I’m Zoie Taylor. I’m looking for Jahi Khalfani.”
“Ain’t everybody looking for that man,” answered the woman from across the room.
“Angie, behave!” the older woman commanded before turning her attention back to Zoie. “Did Pastor Dykes from the Redeemer send you?”
“Sorry. I don’t know a Pastor Dykes. I’m trying to track down your candidate, Jahi Khalfani.”
“Are you from the press or something?” the older woman asked, peering at Zoie over her rhinestone-crusted reading glasses.
“No. But I am here in an official capacity.” Zoie handed the woman a business card identifying her as an attorney at the Crayton Foundation. “It’s very important that I speak to Mr. Khalfani. I’ve been to the Shelter and several other places, and I’ve been calling him all day.”
“Uh-huh. The case of the missing candidate,” said the younger woman before turning back to a new phone conversation. Her counterpart was not amused.
“I need to talk to him about his Shelter’s grant,” Zoie explained. “It’s a time-sensitive matter.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I haven’t seen him in a few days, but I’m not here all the time. The person who should know his whereabouts is his campaign manager, Cheryl Daniels.”
“She’s the one who gets paid,” piped in the younger woman. “We’re just volunteers.”
“And proud to be helping. Right, Angie?” the older woman said, scolding the other.
“Oh, I like to help—but I’d be prouder if they fed us.”
This time the older woman ignored her.
“How can I get in touch with this Cheryl Daniels?” Zoie asked.
“I can’t give out her number, but I’ll call her for you,” the redhead said, trying to be helpful.
“If you would, that would be great.”
Zoie’s eyes scanned the desk as she waited for the redhead to locate Daniels’s phone number from a paper in the desk drawer. There was a small pile of bumper stickers and a basket of campaign buttons. Some of the buttons bore Jahi’s image; others just said, “Khalfani, my choice for Ward 5.”
The redhead dialed the number from the landline on the desk.
“Cheryl, sorry to bother you, but I got a woman here looking for Jahi. Says she’s from the foundation that gives grants to Mahali.”
Zoie waited as Cheryl Daniels (presumably) gave instructions to the redhead.
“She wants to talk to you.” She handed the receiver to Zoie.
Zoie introduced herself and repeated her situation and the urgent need to find Jahi.
“Well, Ms. Taylor, I wish I could help you. My candidate has taken a few days off from the campaign trail. A prior commitment has taken him out of town on a personal matter. I sure wish he’d told me about this commitment sooner. I had to cancel his appearance at the senior citizens’ residence, in a radio interview, and at a rally at the community center. He’s got to get back for the debates at MLK Library in a couple of days.”
“I’ve been trying to contact him. I’ve left a bunch of messages, with no response,” Zoie explained.
“Don’t feel special,” Cheryl said sarcastically. “He’s ignoring my calls as well. He’s got people handling the Shelter while he’s away. Why don’t you try there again? And I’ll be sure to let him know that you’re trying to reach him when he calls in.”
It sounded as if things weren’t going well on the campaign trail, and the campaign had just started.
When the call ended, Zoie thanked the redheaded volunteer.
“No luck, huh?”
“Not yet.”
She picked up the basket and offered Zoie a campaign button. “Just got these in. These are two dollars apiece or three for five dollars.”
Zoie tried to smile and resisted an incredible urge to spit. “No thanks,” she answered. “I don’t live in Ward Five.”
Chapter 35
What’s Going On, Baby Girl?
“Enough of this!” Thoroughly disgusted, Zoie climbed into her commissioned cab. So Jahi is officially MIA. Even his campaign crew was miffed. He wasn’t just avoiding her—he was avoiding everybody. In light of Ray’s death and the likely criminal activity at the Shelter, Jahi’s disappearance was even more suspicious.
“Enough of what?” Muwakkil asked.
“Nothing. Forget it,” she answered.
“So, lady, where to next?” he asked.
“Downtown to K Street,” she instructed. Then she mumbled under her breath, “I need to get to my office before my employers fire me. But maybe getting fired wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”
Muwakkil ignored the mumbling.
Preoccupied with her problems, Zoie stared out the window. How could she not go to the police? She couldn’t return to her apartment. Where would she sleep? Maybe she’d go to her grandmother’s. Or maybe she’d stay at Tina’s. After all, she had the keys to Tina’s apartment. Muwakkil scooted through DC traffic and got her to the K Street area in no time.
“Do you want me to wait again?”
“I think so,” Zoie answered. “I still have several hours on this daily tab thing, right?”
“Yes, lady, you do.”
“I’m going to my office. If I have to stay there, I’ll give you a call.”
Muwakkil pulled onto the K Street service road, and Zoie directed him to drive farther down the block, to her office building. She was trying to decide whether she should lug her denim bag into the office when she spotted Regina. Her young assistant was with a man who, at least from the rear, looked like Tarik. After a few seconds, the Tarik look-alike changed his position, allowing Zoie to see his face. It was Tarik—Regina and Tarik. And they were definitely together. Regina leaned into the building in a sultry stance as Tarik hovered over her, his hand pressed into the wall as a brace.
“My God. What’s that little bastard up to?” Zoie said to herself. “And what’s Regina doing with him?” She stared for a minute longer before ducking away from the taxi’s window to avoid being seen.
“Lady, are you coming or going?” Muwakkil asked.
“I’ve changed my mind. Drive around the block,” Zoie ordered.
The taxi tour around the block in heavy traffic took more than ten minutes. En route she spotted the homeless duo making their way to their usual spot. The wild one had his shopping cart loaded with his green bags. Carrying no possessions, the other one followed a few yards behind. Maybe his stuff is in the wild one’s cart, she thought.
“Please stop here. Just for a minute,” Zoie instructed her driver.
Muwakkil pulled over. “Lady, I can’t stay here.”
Down the street Zoie could see that Regina and Tarik were no longer loitering at her building’s entrance.
“I’m leaving my bag with you,” Zoie told Muwakkil.
“Okay, lady,” he said. “But I can’t double park.” He pointed to the parking sign.
“Then move to where you need to move. I’ll try to be back in thirty or forty minutes. I’ll call first.”
When her taxi drove off, Zoie looked to the sky. “God, send me a sign,” she said under her breath. Usually Zoie wasn’t much for calling on help from the heavens, but then nothing was usual these days, and she sure needed help. She approached the man who’d been supplying uncommon wisdom. Today, of all days, she hoped for some clue of how to get out of the jam she had stumbled into.
“Good afternoon, Simon.”
The man nodded.
“You got a message for me today?”
From several yards away, the wild one turned when he saw her approach Simon. He grimaced.
“Of course, my dear.” Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out a small rumpled paper bag. He pulled a folded piece of paper from the bag and handed it to her. It looked the same as the other messages she’d received over the summer. She hoped this message wouldn’t be
as cryptic.
Zoie tried to give Simon a five-dollar bill, but he wouldn’t take it. “Give it to him,” Simon told her, pointing to his companion.
In a startling move, the wild one stepped forward and snatched the bill from Zoie’s hand. He grinned, his smile exhibiting his yellow teeth.
While she no longer feared the wild one, she found him unpleasant to be around. Zoie palmed her new message and walked away. She’d read the message once she was settled in her office.
Entering her building, she wondered what lies she’d have to tell her colleagues at the Foundation. Even though she didn’t want to go to the police about the break-in at her apartment, at some point she’d have to let the Foundation know that her laptop—the Foundation’s laptop—was missing.
Inside the Foundation’s large suite of offices, many of the staff were congregating near the reception desk. The conversation was in whispers. Regina was not among them.
“Hello, everyone,” Zoie said solemnly. “It’s been a rough day.”
“We can’t believe it,” said Lindsay, a young assistant and one of Regina’s buds. “Ray was here yesterday. I saw him alive. Now he’s gone.”
“Do you know where Regina is?” Zoie asked.
“She went for donuts,” Lindsay answered. “But who feels like eating?”
Howard Metts, a burly man and one of the grant administrators, came over and touched Zoie’s shoulder. “You missed the Crayton big wigs. I don’t think Averell London has stepped foot in this office in two years. Everyone was wondering where you were.”