A blessing. Charlie laughed bitterly. Shortly after 3 p.m. Finch and Drew had held him until the deal closed, released him, and then, he was certain, sicced the local cops on him. Good times. Obviously, the varmints thought he was a lot smarter and more dangerous than he actually was. In fact, he felt like a dumbass, knowing that he could have shouted the truth from the rooftops early on and perhaps stopped the sale, or made sure Minerva received what was rightfully hers. But no. That wasn’t his style. Instead, he had sandbagged and played coy, planning to release American Monster according to his own agenda—thereby making his grand entrance in the fourth act of a three-act play. So the wicked prospered, thanks to God’s incompetent avenger. And the joke was on Minerva.
Then again, she should have gotten a lawyer, like he’d told her to.
To hell with it.
Charlie drove toward the afternoon sun with no idea where to go next or what to do. He just knew he didn’t want to return to the loft and risk an interview or another assassination attempt. He wanted neither to talk nor die, and he especially didn’t want to think about the sale, for that would be dwelling on the land of his enemies. He couldn’t concentrate and grew angrier with each passing second. Was God mocking him, or had God Itself been mocked? “Fuck it!” he shouted, banging the steering wheel.
As he approached Redeemer’s church on Memorial Drive, Charlie wondered if Trouble might be lurking about. Whether the supernatural creep was fully charged or operating on a dead battery, Charlie wanted answers. He pulled into the empty gravel lot of the Holy Way House and scouted for danger. Two middle-aged black men in hard hats walked along the other side of the street. Charlie exited the van and stepped toward the church. Dusk brought a chill, and a gust of wind swirled a plastic bag around the lot. Down at the stoplight, a young black woman in a mini skirt stepped into the street and leaned into the open passenger window of a red Lexus.
One of the church’s broken-out windows had been boarded up. Another hadn’t, and a taped-up towel covered the broken pane. Charlie stepped up to the church door. It had been kicked in and the lock was busted, so it didn’t close perfectly and swung loosely on its hinges. As he entered, his boots crunched glass. He smelled smoke and stared into a dark corner of the sanctuary at a woman and a small boy partially illuminated by late-afternoon sunlight cutting through a side window. Coals glowed in a stubby-legged charcoal grill. Smoke danced through sunbeams on its way out an open rear window.
“This is our place, asshole,” the woman said.
“I’m just looking for someone.”
“Nobody here but us.” She stood and appeared ready for a confrontation. He suspected there might be a weapon in the paper bag she held by her side.
“He works for Redeemer,” Charlie said, taking a step closer. As his eyes adjusted, he realized that he was gazing at the porn star from Satalin’s DVD. The home wrecker. Trouble’s whore. Why did this woman keep showing up, like a thumb in his eye, to remind him how shabby his life was? She was most likely diseased, living here in an abandoned church, mocking God. Not that Charlie was particularly fond of the Almighty right then, himself. And she was good-looking. Still. She had a lot of nerve.
“What’s his name?”
“I call him … he’s the dishwasher. At least he was on Thanksgiving.”
She shook her head. “The kitchen was open again on Christmas. Just that day, though. Anybody worked over there,” she said, nodding in the direction of the Hunger Palace, “is out of a job.”
A second child emerged from the shadows. The girl. Charlie plopped down on a pew and rubbed his face with his hands. There was no reason for him to be in this place. He should go. Yet here he was, troubled by feelings of both revulsion and desire.
The porn star was close now, blocking the light flooding the western window. She wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt. No makeup. This gave her a winsome, vulnerable look—just someone who did what she had to do to survive. “I know you,” she said.
“We met on Thanksgiving,” Charlie said. “I helped you and the kids in the serving line.”
“Oh. OK.” Her tone was warmer, softer. Her accent wasn’t Southern, just nondescript American. She drew nearer. “That’s right. Redeemer knows you. You been in a fight?”
“Somebody tried to shoot me.”
“No,” she corrected. “Somebody shot you. They just didn’t do a good job.”
He smiled. She reached down to touch his face. He pulled away, embarrassed, ashamed—and afraid of her, too. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “It’s not safe here.”
“I can take care of my own.” The boy approached and stood at his mother’s right hip.
The girl tiptoed up behind them. “You’re always hurt,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember your names. I’m Charlie. Charlie Sherman.”
“I’m Tawny Carson. This is Wyatt. And Romy. Short for Rosemarie.”
“Hi,” the children said in unison.
“Hi.” Charlie gazed at frizzy-ponytailed Romy, who wore a ratty pink sweatsuit. Such a beautiful little girl. The boy reminded him of Ben, for some reason. These poor kids deserved better than this. “Anybody can come in, just like I did. It’s not safe.”
“It’s not safe anywhere, Charlie. You should know that.”
He nodded toward the grill. “Is that what you’re using for heat?”
“For now.”
“I could fix the door,” Charlie said, surprising himself. “In the morning. The front window, too. But you could … you’ve got to watch out for carbon monoxide.”
“I’ll be OK. Unless you got a better idea where we could stay.” She raised an eyebrow.
“It … you could freeze to death here,” he said. “Do Romy and Wyatt have sleeping bags?”
“We got blankets.”
“Look … I have kids their age. I’d like to get them some sleeping bags.”
“I’m not stoppin’ ya. That wouldn’t be right for me to stop you, if that’s what you want to do. Just don’t tell anyone we’re here. They’ll take my kids away. No telling where they’d end up.”
“OK.” He paused to think. “You want one, too?”
“A sleeping bag? Sure, if you’re handing ’em out.”
“I’ll get some food, too.”
He stood and inched slowly out of the pew.
She touched his arm and whispered, “You can fuck me when you come back. Any way you want.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m ascetic.”
She nodded knowingly. “I know how that is. I don’t feel so good myself sometimes.”
He drove off and considered not coming back, but he couldn’t break his promise to the kids. Maybe she didn’t belong in Redeemer’s house. On the other hand, if Trouble hated her so much, maybe she wasn’t all bad. Somehow he was caught between the two of them without understanding why. But a deal is a deal, and that little girl was worth saving. No doubt.
* * *
It was bright and chilly Saturday morning when Charlie showed up at the Holy Way House with a new framed steel door and a window-sized plywood sheet tied atop his Volvo. Inside, he saw the sleeping bags he’d brought by the night before, but no people. He slipped on gloves and, despite having no legal right to do so, started tearing out the old door. His hand injury slowed him down. So did tearing the wrapping off the new tools he’d bought. He fixed the broken window first—or at least nailed the plywood over it.
It was noon before Charlie wrestled the new door into place, and he had nearly finished shimming it level when a black sedan pulled into the lot, causing him to flinch. Out stepped a man in a suit, wearing a fedora and trench coat, looking like a darker version of Lieutenant Kinderman from The Exorcist. He stood with his feet apart, arms akimbo. Charlie set down his carpenter’s level and gave him a questioning look.
A broad grin spread across the man’s face. “The elusive Mr. Sherman. Nice of you to fix Redeemer’s door. I wonder if he broke in himself one night whe
n he forgot his keys. Don’t get me wrong,” he said, holding out his hands, palms down, as if to calm the waters. “We love him. But he is what he is.” He stepped up onto the porch. “I’m Detective Sanders, Atlanta Police. And in case you haven’t noticed—and judging by your face, I’m guessing you have—somebody would prefer it if you weren’t breathing. I’d like to talk to you about that.”
“Hang on. There. That should hold.” Charlie dropped his screwdriver and shook hands gingerly, wincing at the detective’s viselike grip.
“You’re the most interesting person in the world right now, you know.”
Charlie shrugged. “I had an interesting week. How’d you find me?”
“I didn’t. He did,” Sanders said, pointing across the street to a patrol car sitting in a warehouse parking lot. “We have an APB out on you. Nothing to worry about,” Sanders said, holding up a palm. “I just have some questions to ask.”
“I’ll talk, so long as I can keep working. I’m not going anywhere.”
Sanders looked around. “Fair enough. I imagine you’ve had your fill of cops.”
“I was handcuffed by three different law enforcement agencies Thursday,” Charlie said, beaming proudly.
“On one day?” Sanders chuckled. “Those are Redeemer-type stats. You should be proud.” He pulled out a white notepad. “No need for that today.”
The interview proceeded, punctuated by Charlie’s grunts and groans as he leaned in to drive screws by hand, regretting his refusal to buy a cordless driver.
“You may know by now that your would-be killer was a Forsyth County meth dealer,” Sanders said. “We found $10,000 cash in the truck toolbox. I also know Isaac Cutchins had you arrested.”
“There you go.” Charlie grunted as he worked on installing a lock.
“Which is interesting, since I learned from a beat cop’s incident report of a break-in at … hang on … Bayard Terrace … that Cutchins allegedly shot out your van window in November. You were going to speak to a detective, but you disappeared. So, there you go. Went. And the next thing we hear from you is … kablooey!”
Charlie balanced his screwdriver on two fingers and blinked at him. “Whatever do you mean?”
Sanders laughed. “I mean that you’re standing there with a screwdriver because all your power tools got burned up on Christmas Eve! Look, I know why you don’t want to admit being at the Store-All. They shouldn’t have linked you to the meth lab in the unit next door. I don’t believe you’re connected to it, even though the GBI is still investigating that angle.”
Charlie gave him the blankest look he had available.
“And when you pop your head up again, all hell breaks loose on Castlegate. Again with the meth dealers. Speed kills.” He shook his head in bemusement. “So who wants to do you harm? Besides Mister ‘Get off my lawn’ and the dead guys, that is. Did you know them?”
“Nope.” Charlie grabbed the level and peered at its bubble. “Start with Cutchins’ son, Stanley.”
“Ah, the man finally says something useful. That name sounds familiar.”
“He’s a state legislator.”
Sanders groaned, then jabbed his pen at Charlie. “What did you take from the old man to cause this trouble?”
“Right to remain silent and all that. I suggest you ask the alleged victim.”
“The warrant doesn’t state what it was.”
“All the more reason to ask.”
“I’ve seen your book. I understand why folks up in Forsyth County don’t like it, but the reaction seems … harsh for something that happened nearly a hundred years ago.”
Charlie shrugged. “Ask them.”
Sanders gave him a peeved look. He shook his head and glanced over his notes. “Something’s missing.”
“Besides one of my teeth and part of my ear?”
“Yeah,” Sanders said. “Like honest answers.”
“Well, that’s all I’ve got to say, for now.” Charlie reached for a tube of caulk.
“Gee, thanks for all your help,” Sanders said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
He took down Charlie’s cellphone number and handed him a business card.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said as he walked to his car.
A moment later, Charlie’s phone buzzed. “Hello.”
“Just checking.” The detective waved at him, then hung up and drove off.
Charlie finished installing the door. While cleaning up the job site, he heard a squealing engine belt behind him. He turned to see a banged-up red Cadillac sedan veer across two lanes of oncoming traffic and jump the curb, throwing a hubcap. Charlie leaped over the porch railing, landing behind a scraggly bush. The car skidded to a stop ten feet away, raising a cloud of dust that floated toward him. Only when the dust settled and he recognized the driver did Charlie come out into the open. A puffy face wearing oversized sunglasses poked out the open car window. “Did I hire you to do that?” the man rasped.
“No sir,” Charlie admitted.
Redeemer Wilson slid across the seat and exited the passenger side. Wearing a suit without a tie, the old man wobbled toward Charlie and flashed a grin. His breath reeked of whiskey. Charlie grabbed his elbow to steady him and wondered if the old icon/reprobate had been out carousing all night.
“I been meanin’ to get that fixed,” Redeemer said. “But if I didn’t hire you, I don’t gotta pay you.”
“That’s true. It’s on the house,” Charlie said.
“On the house of the Lord.” Redeemer frowned pensively and wagged his finger. “I know you.”
“I interviewed you for a book about Forsyth County.”
Redeemer snapped his fingers. “You the one been in the middle of that mess all week. I was gonna pray for you. I coulda told ya that those white folks up there don’t like people criticizin’ ’em. Glad to see you survived. Bloody but unbowed. My kind of guy.” He gave Charlie a hearty whack on the back.
“Here,” Charlie said, dangling the keys at eye level. “I made spares. Three sets in all.”
Redeemer watched them swing. “It’s your door,” he pointed out.
“No, I just fixed it.”
“You went and made it your door. You’re it.” He laughed and tagged Charlie on the shoulder.
“It’s your church.”
“I haven’t been able to keep it open. Or closed.” He gestured to the boarded-up window. “So you can come here any time you want. ’Specially if you’re going to fix it. It needs a lotta work inside. Buncha derelicts trashed it. I ran out of money. People won’t give anymore. Don’t know what’s wrong with ’em.” He paused. “Actually, I do. Buncha cheap-hearted bastards is what they are. Glad to see somebody cares. Keep up the good work. I’m goin’ home now.”
Charlie again tried to give him all the keys. Redeemer consented to take one set. “You keep the others,” he told the younger man. “Since you’re the only one who cares. You gotta give her one of them, too, since she lives here now. I assume you’re doing this to keep her safe.”
“Who?” Charlie asked, trying to look innocent.
Redeemer gave Charlie a look that made him blush, then guffawed. “The young woman with the kids. Does tricks. She’s around here somewhere. Her little girl is special. You know what I mean.”
Charlie didn’t. He tried to hand Redeemer the rest of the keys. The old man refused. “Go on. Keep a set and give one to the gal,” he wheezed. “I got cancer. No tellin’ how long I’ll be around. How long? Not long. It’s a joke, son. You had to be there. Take care of yourself. If you want to do more, here’s how to get in touch.” Redeemer fished out an old, grimy business card from his wallet and squinted at some writing on the back. He laughed. “Don’t call that number,” he told Charlie, handing him the card. “Call the one on the front.”
Redeemer turned and walked unsteadily to his car. Charlie watched and worried about letting the man drive. Then he recalled that, despite all the negative publicity, Redeemer had never been convicted of a traff
ic offense or had a wreck. He decided that the old man had some sort of protection, too, better than anything some shot-up, just-out-of-jail white guy could give him, especially in this part of town. Charlie trotted over to the light pole and retrieved the hubcap. As soon as he had reattached it to the wheel, Redeemer drove off, blasting the horn three times.
Charlie unlocked the new door and immediately felt better, like he’d just kicked Trouble in the teeth. He packed up his tools and drove to a shopping center to get some gifts for Romy and Ben, because he missed getting things for kids.
When he returned, Tawny and her children were back from a shelter where they’d gone to wash up. Tawny looked nice in the daylight—even beautiful. He gave her a set of keys, keeping the last one for himself, only because there was no one else to give them to and Tawny insisted he keep them. She thanked him again for the sleeping bags, food, and the kerosene space heater he’d brought by the night before. When he gave a stuffed bear to Romy and building blocks to Wyatt, each child grabbed one of his legs and hugged him fiercely, nearly toppling the big man. He handed Tawny a fifty-dollar bill, surprising himself more than her, especially since he was running low on cash.
When he said he had to go, Tawny walked him to the door and played with it, opening and closing, stepping in and out of shadow and light. “Thank you for all you’re doing for us. Come back any time,” she whispered in his right ear, adding a nibble and a lick.
He ducked away from her, smiling and gently swatting his ear. The woman was dangerous, and if he let his guard down—well, he wouldn’t let his guard down. He couldn’t afford … he just couldn’t, not when she’d caused him so much pain, getting him thrown out of his house and all.
Once in his car, he cleaned out his ear with a moist towelette. Then another, for good measure.
Chapter Twenty-One
One thing was certain: Since the ordeal of his shooting and arrest, Charlie Sherman was no longer anonymous. He had to come out of hiding and make a statement, so he set up an interview with Bill Crenshaw, the reporter who’d been with him at the beginning. After lunch Saturday, he parked the Volvo in Decatur near the library and fed the meter. A young couple on a bench across Sycamore Street snuck glances at him as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his battle-worn duster and shuffled up the sidewalk. He crossed at the light, passing a bearded young bohemian in a blue peacoat who gave him a raised-fist salute.
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