Run Baby Run

by Michael Allen Zell

  D-Day started sweating. Here was a trial presenting itself. He'd heard on the street about a missing beer box of money, and it looked like the old lady standing in the aisle to his right had it.

  "Hustler recognize hustler," he muttered.

  His internal struggle was strong before seeing what Miss Melba held. He'd spent last night pulling the crutch hustle on tourists. It was too easy, especially on a Saturday night.

  He'd limp around with one crutch for support. No one's scared of an invalid, so they'd let their guard down. D-Day would either swat them over the head with the crutch or use it from behind to choke. Whichever route, he could spend a few hours Saturday night and make a week's worth of cheese. At least $500.

  The problem was that his conscience was weighing heavy on him. He was back in church for the first time in over a decade, and the temptation of all temptations was so close he could smell it.

  The lines cycled through the tithers, including Miss Melba, and they all took their seats.

  D-Day looked over his shoulder, so he knew where Miss Melba was sitting. She wasn't leaving before the end of the sermon. He knew that much.

  Slow Prophet checked his watch. 11:50 a.m.

  "This is from the book of James. Chapter 1, verse 8," he said, holding up his Bible. "A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways," he read.

  For the next forty-five minutes, S.P. took that verse and stretched it, sliced it, soothed it, and diced it. He was masterful at his craft, his interweaving and referencing no lesser to the art of Escher or the compositions of Bach.

  He always started the same way. "I'm just a man, a vessel filled up by Jesus. He took his time with me, so I gotta take my time with you. And how do I preach?" he asked.

  "Slow!" they responded.

  He smiled and nodded. "That's right. I start out slow until the Lord tells me to move, to cruise. Until then, can I take my time?"

  "Keep it slow, Slow Prophet."

  "I said, 'Can I take my time?' Mmm hmmm. Can you walk if you're cut in half? Hoppin' on one leg. Can you drive a car with only wheels on the left side? That car's tippin' over. Double-minded man's like that. Unstable." His words were drawn out, each syllable deliberated.

  "Preach it, S.P.," a few called out.

  "A double mind's not good for a man," he mused, pointing at his head. "Brings too much confusion. It'll mess with you. Tip you over. Make you hop so much you start crawlin'. This applies for you too, ladies. Oh yes. Can you put on those new jeans, the ones with the rhinestones on the back pockets and the little rips down the front, if they're cut in half? Would you step outside the nail salon if only your left hand's done?"

  The woman of The Tab were aghast. "Of course not!"

  "Yes, if you're not ready for the blessing, the blessing's... ," he paused and gestured.

  "Not ready for you," several said, completing the line.

  Miss Melba and D-Day were responding to the sermon in opposite ways. She felt confirmation of her actions to come after church, that she was single-minded by faith. He, on the other hand, was even more torn by the minute.

  "Look at your neighbor and tell 'em, 'No more double mind,'" S.P. encouraged. The congregation all earnestly repeated it to those around them.

  "You gotta be mindful. If you're single-minded, He's got the power. I wish I had a witness in here."

  Hands rose throughout the sanctuary. "C'mon, pastor."

  "When's the last night you had a full night's rest? Double mind'll mess with you."

  If a black man could have a sickly green pallor, it was D-Day.

  Slow Prophet crouched, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his face.

  "Time for ole S.P. to get movin'. You gotta move your mind. Gotta be mindful. Tell someone, 'I need some answers and I need some help.'" His request was repeated throughout the sanctuary. He started picking up the pace.

  "Can't live life unstable. You need to rewind that double mind. Rewind it now," he exhorted. "Can I get a witness?"

  Hands popped up again. S.P. squatted down.

  "Cut in half's not pretty, is it? Not pretty on the inside either."

  "Help us today" and "No sir" were heard throughout the room.

  D-Day was ready to break. He had three ways to go. He could go crawling, clawing, and crying in repentance down the aisle. He could defiantly reject the sermon. Or he could find a third way. Whichever route, it needed to happen quickly.

  He chose the latter, or actually, it chose him. "No more crutch hustle. No more stealin'. Get my mind stable. Alla that... after I get the box of money. Jesus want me to have it," he thought.

  For the next few minutes, he listened only in a cursory way, responding to S.P. in whichever way his neighbors were. It seemed like he was in a dream. D-Day was planning.

  The sound of drums and keyboard jolted him back to the sanctuary.

  "You are coming out of your dark season," Slow Prophet stressed. He boomed, "Cain't nobody tip you over. Especially yourself. Look at your neighbors and tell 'em, 'Nobody's tipping me over. I'm... not... tipping... me... over... either!'" His last line was punctuated by musical stabs.

  Heads shook from side to side and fingers wagged while everyone said the same thing to anyone within earshot.

  With a fuzzy corrupted way of thinking, D-Day believed it was God's will that he get the money from Miss Melba. He'd initially thought Slow Prophet was preaching at him because of how the words cut, but now in his mind he'd twisted it to think the sermon was for him. The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost wanted him to have that beer case. The twelve disciples too.

  S.P. was now singing his sermon, each line alternating with its musical counterpart.

  "A double mind's a devil mind."

  Ta-ta-ta-boom. Ta-ta-da-boom.

  "Don't pay no mind to devil mind."

  Ta-ta-ta-boom. Ta-ta-da-boom.

  A lady sitting midway back from the pulpit pulled out a tambourine from her purse and started shaking it.

  "Can't preach like Peter, pray like Paul?"

  Ta-ta-boom-boom. Ta-ta-boom-boom.

  "Keep it stable, keep it strong."

  Ta-boom-boom-boom. Ta-boom-ta-boom.

  It was building higher. The music directly accompanied Slow Prophet. The congregants sang lines back to him.

  "Kick the devil out your house. Put him out. Evict him now. Flip it over in your mind. Flip it, tip it, make it fine."

  Throughout The Tab, people were up dancing, crying, smiling, and raising up their hands. In the midst of it all, Miss Melba kept a sharp eye on the beer case under her feet.

  S.P. swung out his arm and checked the time. 12:35 p.m. He signaled to the musicians, and they all took it down. Drums dropped out. Keyboard played a contemplative hymn. S.P. spoke softly. For about five minutes, it was mellow.

  By another five, the full-throttle energy was back.

  In five more minutes, it was down again. Time for the altar call.

  "I fell down, but I got up. How about you?" S.P. beseeched.

  Three songs were played. Half a dozen people, young and old, came forward.

  Slow Prophet asked everyone to put their hands forward while he prayed for those who'd come to the altar. Many of the congregation prayed aloud right with him.

  D-Day was steadily checking on Miss Melba by this point. He saw her reach down and lift up the beer case. She was about to leave.

  "Can't nobody think I'm following," he reasoned. He stepped into the aisle, quickly walked to the back, and headed to the door. He was in front of her, so he seemed less suspicious.

  Out into the foyer he went and finally returned to the sunlight. He didn't know if she'd driven and was in parked in the lot, so he lurked near the door.

  Miss Melba arrived outside shortly after. She squinted in the light and saw a rough mangled looking fellow look at her out of the corne
r of his eye. Mistakenly presuming it was a judgmental fish-eye, she said, "Just commodities, young man." Feeling frisky of spirit after the sermon, she added, "For my cats, Moses and Allen Toussaint."

  Surprise flashed in D-Day's eyes, but he realized she was trying to play him in some way.

  "Hustler recognize hustler," he mused.

  "Allen Toussaint, huh?" he responded aloud, thinking she was also making up that part.

  "Goodness, yes," she said. "Too-Too loves his treats. In a dignified way, of course. After all, he's quite... " She stopped herself. "Excuse me, but I have a bus to catch."

  D-Day was frozen in place.

  11

  Miss Melba walked in her slow gliding way out to the sidewalk, eyes peeking over the top of the beer case she held. When the traffic signal changed in her favor, she crossed, stepped through the grassy neutral ground, and passed along the two lanes on the other side, as well.

  "Alvin, your little Chickie's going downtown," she said to the sky.

  She was now directly across the street from The Tab, at a bus stop for the #57. Now that she was retired, she didn't venture out much, especially not to Canal Street. Had she been leaving directly from home, she'd have caught the #80 on Louisa, like she used to do to get to work.

  No schedule was posted, just an RTA sign stating the bus number, but that didn't matter. Public transportation in New Orleans was irregular and inefficient. Only the carless or those who had no other options put themselves at its mercy. So, wait they did.

  "Who knows how long this bus might be," thought Miss Melba. There was no bus hut or bench, so she placed the heavy case on the sidewalk and sat on it, facing the street.

  There was a flurry of activity inside the Metro PCS store behind her. The Sunday clerk and store manager were stomping through the tiny place, taking in how much of their stock had been stolen overnight. The thieves had trimmed the alarm wires and entered from the back door, so they'd had their run of the store to walk out with several smartphones. Behind the store, on Derbigny, were a barbershop and tire shop, but both were closed.

  Miss Melba began to smell the wafting scent of Chinese food on her right. It put her in the mood for her eventual destination downtown, including her former secret indulgence. The #57 wouldn't take her to its front door, but once she got to Rampart and Canal it'd only be a short walk away.

  Chinese Inn was set back from the street to allow for limited parking. It was a to-go restaurant, so cars were continually pulling in and out. Plenty of walk-up business too. Despite the name, the restaurant was run by a Vietnamese family. The Vietnamese not only ran most of the Asian restaurants of all kinds in the area but also many of the corner markets or hole-in-the-walls that featured spicy boiled shrimp and crawfish in season.

  The building and signage were crude and no-nonsense but completely effective. Simple rectangular white-washed one-story building fronted by a large red add-on sign supported by red posts. Large white Chinese looking English letters unevenly spelled out the restaurant's name. Various menu items were handwritten in red on the building itself.

  Chinese Inn was typically closed on Sundays, but exorbitant medical bills for the Tran family's oldest son had them scrambling for funds. Extra hours at their two restaurants were in effect. The farce of what health care in the country had become over the past twenty years was only slightly met by the events about to play out at the bus stop.

  Hutch had seen Miss Melba cross the street. He was already free of his hiding spot and back out to the sidewalk, advancing toward her, coughing the whole way. He was on The Tab side of Franklin, and she was only four lanes of traffic away.

  Hutch also noticed a rough looking guy with a beatific expression in profile already crossing Franklin up ahead, so seeing no oncoming traffic, he did the same, ending up on the sidewalk directly in front of Chinese Inn. D-Day was half a block away in front of a parking lot protected by a barbed wire-topped chain link fence. Miss Melba was waiting for the bus in a fairly equidistant spot between the two of them.

  She noticed both men heading her way, the one after church who she thought was silently accusing her of toting beer and another twice his age who was hobbling along.

  "Goodness, this reminds me of Marlon's game," she said to herself, thinking of Marlon Batiste, her neighbor on Clouet. Most every day but Sunday he was out playing chess with anyone else who joined in. He'd built a structure supported by three posts that extended the roof line of his little house across the sidewalk to the grassy strip before the street. Set up his table and chairs on the sidewalk under the overhang so that they could play in the shade while they nursed a few beers. Older black men congregated on neutral grounds throughout the city, under trees when they could. Batiste's was merely a version of the tradition.

  "What makes chess fair is both players knowing the strengths and weaknesses of each piece," she thought. "Real life is different. Sometimes what you think is a pawn is instead a queen. Or vice versa."

  The scars on D-Day's face were pulsing in anticipation.

  "Jesus want me to have it. No more tippin' over," he muttered.

  "Can't believe the money turned up like this," Hutch coughed. Watching D-Day, "Young brother better sleep on it. If I gotta do him, I sure will," came out in one long hack. He wasn't armed, so he meant using his bare hands.

  D-Day read Hutch's intensity as if he could hear him.

  "Nigga you betta walk on by. Soulja comin' your way. A Holy soulja," he gritted through his teeth. He'd not brought his gun or knife to church but always kept a screwdriver in his pocket just in case.

  Wind gusts began to kick up dirt and shake the trees. A storm system was moving through, but it had split in two, bringing thunderstorms to the other side of the lake and river. Most of New Orleans was experiencing only a brief respite from the summer heat.

  Both Hutch and D-Day were a few steps from Miss Melba. Both locked their jaws and held them forward. Both narrowed their eyes and held their shoulders high in the wind.

  Within seconds, they all formed an odd triangle. Hutch leaning in on the left, D-Day on the right, and the seated Miss Melba in the middle.

  The two men were mean muggin' each other, not focusing on their common object of interest.

  "Son, this thing ain't for you," Hutch said.

  D-Day smacked his own chest. "I'm doin' the Lord's work. Who you, buster?"

  "We got a problem, sucker?" Hutch asked.

  Miss Melba knew to expect this sort of thing. She had two sons. A husband too, up until recently. She'd spent her whole life around men who were often not treated as men. She knew how to handle it. "Excuse me, men," she said. "There's no need to beef. You don't even know each other."

  She looked directly at Hutch. "You look hungry, baby. Are you hungry?" She didn't comment on how much he stunk.

  Hutch was taken aback.

  "Yes, ma'am, but that don't matter. What's gonna happen is... "

  She held up a hand.

  "See that Chinese place? Why don't you get some food in your belly. It'll make your mind better. Spiciness will help your throat. Don't go to Turner's over there. I hear something's shady with the recipes."

  Both men nodded. She reached out, touched Hutch's arm, and kept her hand in place.

  "Looks like you haven't slept. No bus coming yet. Go get some food. Won't take long."

  Although Hutch had planned to first take down D-Day and then strong arm the beer case out from under her, Miss Melba convinced him to follow her directions when she opened her big white purse and slightly withdrew an object. Both men were stunned to see her hand firmly clenched around the grip and trigger of a gun, though D-Day thought it was a Taser.

  "I don't need to take this all the way out, do I?" she asked. "My husband taught me if it comes out, you use it."

  D-Day considered grabbing his screwdriver. She turned to him, knowing somehow.
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br />   "Why don't you go with him, baby? The sweet & sour chicken's supposed to be good. Don't worry about me. I'm not going anywhere. Don't turn down no food," she said, smiling gently and handing both D-Day and Hutch $10 bills with her other hand.

  She didn't let loose of the gun until they were midway to the restaurant. Her hand started to tremble. Miss Melba looked upward.

  "Alvin, you said there'd never be use again for that starter's pistol once Zekey ran his last track meet senior year. You old fool. But look at me. Biggest fool of all to think I can pull this off. Can't by myself. Sure can't take this out of my purse, then they'd know what it is."

  She closed her eyes and thought. After finishing, the trouble lifted from her eyes.

  "Too many of our people keep losing a game they don't know how to play. Not me. Won't bleed me. Not today," she said.

  NOPD officers Bourgeois and McCoy drove past Miss Melba. They'd spent the morning fruitlessly looking for a whiter-than-white man in a black church and otherwise cruising around the neighborhood searching for an Abita Amber beer case full of money. Hassling Bobby Delery too.

  Word had spread among the rank and file that Dominic Cavallari would pay $50,000 for the box of money, $60K if his employee came with it. A former boxer named Raymond "Hutch" Pate. It was like a scavenger hunt for cops.

  Though Sunday mornings were slow for 911 calls, most of the slim number were ignored to focus on finding the money. Officers were riding alone. NOPD was in the midst of major attrition by felony or flight, dropping their ranks by getting themselves locked up or moving on to greener pastures. Partnerless patrolling made typical policework dangerous, but the majority thought it advantageous to go solo for the money search.

  Bourgeois and McCoy felt their chances were better for capturing Pate and the money as a team, so they doubled up. Bourgeois was a born and raised local who wore a pompadour like Elvis. McCoy was an Okie who'd moved down a few years before. He sported short moussed-up bangs like it was still the late 80's. Both had bright swatches of red on their necks and noses from the sun. Splinter-colored hair and splinter-minded beliefs. Bourgeois was all lips. McCoy was all nose.