Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  But this wasn’t a church.

  He stood waiting, hoping that a new word would come. Finally, he hung his head in submission. “Lord, I feel sorry for these people, but I don’t love them. If you want me to do this, You’ll have to change my heart.”

  Jonathan was now on the right street heading for the parking garage. His feet flew over the pavement. Soon he’d be home. After his shower, he’d have time to pray, ask God for another confirmation. Perhaps he had misunderstood. The thought added wings to his feet. Yes, there was a chance he had misunderstood.

  “Pastor Holmes? Is that you?”

  Jonathan turned to the sound of the voice and saw a car slowing beside him. The passenger window was open and Jonathan’s breath caught when he recognized the driver. “Oh . . . hello, Gertie.”

  “Is everything alright?”

  “Yes, of course.” Jonathan tried smoothing his shirt.

  “You look . . . poorly.”

  “I’m fine. Just had a . . . long night.”

  “You don’t look fine. You look like something the cat dragged in.” The car had stopped and Gertie leaned towards the passenger window. For a moment Jonathan was afraid she was going to get out. “My husband’s Uncle Alistair used to have long nights, too. That’s when he used to drink and go on week-long binges. Come to think of it, Pastor, he looked a lot like you do now.”

  “What brings you to this neighborhood?” Jonathan deliberately remained several feet away. One good whiff and Gertie would be off on her tangent again.

  “Sissy Wheeler just donated two brand new coffee urns to Christ Church. Said the coffee out of the old ones tasted like someone was laying asphalt on her tongue. I was for throwing them out, but Pastor Combs insisted they still had a lot of life left and that we should donate them to that little church here in South Oberon. Seems you got us started in the donating business and now Pastor Combs wants to give everything we can’t use, away. I swear, all the garbage has to go through his office before it’s allowed to be put in the dumpster!” Gertie laughed. “Well, not really, but it sure feels that way.

  “Anyhow, Pastor Combs asked me to call the church and see if they could use the urns, and of course they said ‘yes’. Then he asked me to deliver them, but I said not on your life. I don’t do South Oberon. You think I want my hubcaps stolen? I’ll have you know these hubcaps cost three hundred dollars apiece! Then Pastor Combs said it wasn’t really in South Oberon, but more on the border of North Oberon. Then he showed me on the map and well, what could I say? I’ve always been a pushover. ‘Just let Gertie do it.’ That’s what everybody says. So here I am.” She jerked her chin to the side. “It’s just ahead, down that street on the left.”

  From where he stood, Jonathan could see the giant, silver urns sitting in the backseat like two tin men. “Well, don’t let me hold you up.” He backed further away just as the wind kicked up behind him and blew in Gertie’s direction, making her face wrinkle.

  “Pastor, if you don’t mind me saying, you can’t sweep problems under a rug. Uncle Alistair tried that for years and ruined his liver. You’re young, yet. You have time to change. But you need to get a grip. I’m not clergy so I’m not qualified, otherwise I’d offer to help you myself. And Pastor Sorensen never had an ounce of trouble so I can’t even share any of his remedies. The only thing I can say is that Pastor Sorensen was never interested in changing things like you are. Never tried stirring things up, either. He was content with things as they were, so were the deacons—all like-minded godly men. Why, the church practically ran itself! ‘Course I can’t prove it, but I believe that’s how come Pastor Sorensen died peacefully in his sleep. Just slipped away one night—like it was a reward of sorts. There’s a lot to be said for letting things be.” Gertie looked at her watch. “Time’s flying. Can I drop you anywhere?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The look of relief on Gertie’s face was unmistakable. “Okay, then. I’ll be going. And I’ll be praying for you, Pastor. I’ll pray that God helps you get a grip on your life.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The sirens and cavalcade of squad cars made Stubby sprint the entire block as he followed them from the Angus Avenue Hotel to what the inhabitants of Skid Row called the Industrial Strip. Going from east to west, the Strip consisted of the Angus Glass Works, The Gorge, the freight station, and Nationwide Distributors—with their half dozen warehouses that looked like neatly aligned loaves of bread. It was all that was left of the Angus Empire in South Oberon.

  Stubby lurked in the shadows of Nationwide Distributors, in their lot of ready-for-shipment containers. From here, he had a clear view of the freight yard. He watched the police drive stakes into the ground, then wind their yellow tape until a huge section of the yard was cordoned off. Most of the activity centered around a disconnected freight car sitting on a dead-end track.

  Turtle never showed up at The Gorge. Now, Stubby waited for some clue, some sign to confirm what he already knew.

  Turtle was never coming back.

  A crowd had gathered, and when Stubby saw two uniformed cops begin to question everyone, he pressed closer to the side of the warehouse. First Manny, now . . . . He brushed his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to ignore the sick, lonely feeling in his chest.

  They’d come for him next, though he never had no part in it. Justice rented no rooms on Angus Avenue, not the kind you read about in books, anyhow. The best thing for him to do was hop the first bus to Tucson and kiss this whole sorry neighborhood goodbye.

  He pictured Turtle with his dirty, over-sized shirt, ripped pants, hacking cough and shaking hands, and how Turtle had clomped away in his old boots without looking back. Turtle would have liked Tucson. And that hot, dry air would have done his lungs good—maybe cleared up that cough. Stubby kicked the dirt with his sneaker. Well . . . at least Turtle didn’t have to scratch and scrape no more. It hardly seemed worth all the scratching and scraping it took to make it through a day. Maybe that’s how Turtle had felt, and Manny, too. Else, why would they pull that stunt unless they figured they had nothing to lose? Though when Stubby remembered that scared look on Turtle’s face he knew in his heart Turtle hadn’t been ready to cash in his chips.

  Stubby leaned against the corrugated wall of the warehouse thinking that maybe Tucson wasn’t such a good idea after all. Why bother? Word was, this crowd could find anybody, no matter where they went. And if they didn’t get Stubby, then the hunger would, or TB, or cold or . . . .

  Stubby pulled away from the wall, turned and headed for the Angus Avenue Hotel. No, there weren’t no point in goin’ to Tucson. He could see that now. Better to forget it and just get high—maybe go back to snowballs. Nothing made him feel better than cocaine and heroin. He’d get a stash, then hole up in his room ‘til his Social Security ran out. Let them come for him if they wanted. It didn’t matter. He was tired of trying; tired of thinking life would get better. It was all useless. There was no God, at least not One Who was interested in answering Stubby’s prayers.

  Cynthia pressed against the tape as she watched the swarm of uniformed and plain-clothes police. “Steve, what’s going on?”

  A tall, redhead extracted himself from the crowd and walked over to where she stood. His shield was clipped to his belt and under his blue suit she saw the bulge of his Glock. The smile on his face told her he was pleased to see her, a surprise since she had given him the boot.

  “Uniform division called us. They found a John Doe in one of the cars. Ident’s just arrived.”

  Cynthia knew Steve was referring to the Identification Section or Major Crime Scene Unit that was there to collect fingerprints and other evidence as well as take photos. Part of the uniform division was now busy controlling the scene by keeping unauthorized personnel out of the way; the other part was busy isolating witnesses.

  “Sorry, but I can’t let you through. The ME still has to certify that our John Doe’s dead. And Ident’s dusting for prints and casting tire tracks.”

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sp; Cynthia looked past Detective Steve Bradley and watched as men combed the freight yard. “Can you tell me anything?”

  “Only that a white male, between fifty and sixty, has been beaten to death—a brutal, methodical beating by someone who enjoyed it.”

  “Can you do better on the age—narrow it a bit?”

  “The guy was homeless. It’s hard to tell with them. I’ve seen twenty-year-old homeless druggies look forty.”

  “So . . . he was homeless and a drug user?” She scribbled some notes on her pad. “Anything else?”

  “Don’t waste your time. This is not your kind of story. Go hang out at City Hall.”

  Cynthia tapped her pad and frowned. Steve, during those rare times when he talked about his work, only gave bare details as if to spare her the “dirt” of his trade, never connecting the fact that her trade was dirty, too, that politicians committed their own share of homicides and robberies by assassinating their opponent’s reputations or scamming taxpayer money. And he didn’t know, nor would he understand, about her growing obsession with the dead. “I go where my instincts lead me and right now they’re leading me here.”

  Steve squared his shoulders. “You want to dig around for a story that’s not there, be my guest.”

  “I take it you’re not going to spend much time on this.”

  Steve’s wide brow pinched over algae-green eyes. Cynthia knew that look. Pure business. “One of the reasons I like you is because you’re not a bleeding heart. So I’m assuming you’re seeing something I’m not.”

  “Doesn’t it seem strange that three people, in a matter of a few blocks, have all died from unnatural causes within two months?”

  Steve shrugged. “I count two. The guy in the dumpster and now this one.”

  “What about that pastor at the Beacon Mission?”

  Steve laughed, a condescending sort of laugh, as though he found himself in the unpleasant position of lecturing a child. “Stick to uncovering government waste. Homicide’s obviously not your thing. That pastor’s death was accidental. The old guy slipped, and that was that. As for the rest . . . this is Skid Row, Cynthia, not exactly the healthiest part of town. People here die all the time for all sorts of reasons.”

  “Maybe. But I still count three strange deaths within two months and I don’t like those odds.”

  Steve leaned over the tape and stuck his face within inches of Cynthia’s. She could tell by the look in his eyes and by that Clark-Gable-kind-of-smirk that business was over. “Tell you what. I’ll give you everything I have on these cases over dinner.”

  Cynthia shook her head. “We’re no good for each other.” She meant every word. His line of work left him not liking people much, either. And two such disconnected souls could never create a connection. “I just want to be friends. And friends don’t use their friends.” She meant that, too. She was through using him, though he hardly seemed to appreciate it. “I’ve explained all this already.”

  “You did. But I told you I don’t mind being used. In fact, I like it.” He brushed her forehead with his fingers. “Don’t be so quick to give up on us. We understand each other. We’re a lot alike, you and I.”

  “Perhaps that’s why they say opposites attract.”

  “Oh, Jonathan, it’s horrible! Gertie’s been telling everyone how you’ve sunk into some sort of abyss that includes mental illness, drunkenness and depravation all rolled into one. She says she knows all about these things because of some uncle of hers. She’s been entertaining people for hours with her descriptions of your hair and clothes, your face. She even had the audacity to tell everyone you smelled to high heavens. I’m telling you, Jonathan, I’ve been on my knees three times today, praying for God to lift my bad temper and forgive my desire to wash her mouth out with soap. But I’m still so angry!”

  Jonathan used his shoulder to cup the phone against his ear while he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a gallon of milk. Nothing he put in his mouth these days escaped his appreciation.

  “Jonathan, did you hear what I said?”

  “It’s partially true. But only partially, and of course there’s a good explanation.” The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening. He filled his glass then described his Skid Row experience.

  “So, God is sending you to work with the homeless?”

  “Yes, Aunt Adel, I believe He is.” He wondered if his voice sounded as agitated as his emotions. The possibility of being surrounded by poverty again had created such anxiety over the past forty-eight hours that he couldn’t help but see it as a red flag. Had his years of struggling and working two jobs to get a degree been motivated more by a desire to leave behind an impoverished lifestyle rather than a desire to serve God? That possibility pricked him like a bee sting.

  “Did you really smell like vomit?”

  “That, and other things.” He heard his aunt laugh, but the laugh was strained. “I’m sorry for all the embarrassment I’m causing. I just don’t know any other way . . . .”

  “Don’t be silly, Jonathan. There is no other way. You have to obey and I . . . well, I’ll have to learn to deal with Gertie’s wagging tongue aside from wanting to lather it with Lava soap.”

  “I wish I could do something to make this easier for you.”

  “Obviously it’s not meant to be easy or God would have made it so. But I must tell you that ever since you left Christ Church, I’ve been seeing myself more clearly. And I see that I’m not nearly as far down that road of sanctification as I thought I was.”

  Jonathan eyed his prayer journal on the counter. He had not written a word in it since his return from Skid Row. “Neither am I Aunt Adel. Neither am I.”

  Cynthia walked down Angus Avenue clutching her purse and feeling foolish. As a veteran investigator, she knew better than to come to South Oberon carrying an alligator bag. But she had been in a hurry and overlooked the obvious. Even her expensive high heels betrayed her with their click-click-click along the uneven pavement, a sound as strange and out-of-place here as a woodpecker tapping a telephone pole in New York City.

  “Hey chickie, chickie,” came a voice out of nowhere. “Come look what I got.”

  Cynthia spotted a grimy man hovering by an alley. He looked in his thirties. She remembered Steve’s words about not being able to tell a homeless person’s age and decided he could just as well be twenty. He held a pack of cigarettes. Cynthia wondered if it wasn’t full of drugs.

  “You lookin’ for something special? I got it,” came the voice again.

  Cynthia quickened her pace, each footfall creating a cacophony of noise which seemed to grow louder. Eyes watched her from the shadows, sizing her up. She was a stranger, a trespasser who had wandered into a hostile land. She skirted a man sprawled unconscious across the sidewalk, then darted passed two drunks sipping from bottles in paper bags. Cynthia avoided looking their way, but couldn’t avoid the pleading stares of the two approaching women.

  “You have a little something you can spare? It’s for the kids,” one of them said, glancing at the children that appeared like miniature bookends on either side of her.

  Cynthia tried to discern if the women were high. When she decided no, she opened her purse and pulled out two tens then gave one to each of them.

  “Thank you. That’s most generous,” the same woman said, smiling.

  “I wonder if you could help me? I’m trying to find out about that man who was killed the other day. The one the police found in the freight car.”

  The woman drew her children closer. “Yes, I heard about it. Don’t know anything, though, except that his name was Turtle. I’m new around here.” She turned to her companion. “Anything you can add?”

  The second woman shook her head. “Sorry.”

  Cynthia watched them walk away, half expecting to see them stop by the man with the cigarette pack and relieve themselves of their newfound wealth, but they passed him without a glance.

  At least they hadn’t made a fool of her. Still, she wa
s getting nowhere. She had made a tactical error. Her attire—a black pantsuit and two-inch-high Nine West heels, not to mention the three hundred dollar black alligator bag—was all wrong and had created a barrier between her and everyone she encountered. She wouldn’t get her story looking like this. Maybe things would be different at the shelter.

  As she walked up to the Angus Avenue Men’s Shelter, she hoped she’d be more successful. When she pulled the door and it wouldn’t open, she tried the bell.

  A man with a snake tattooed on his upper left arm opened the door and looked at her as though he had never seen a woman before. He gave her the once-over before settling his attention on her purse. “Read the sign, lady. This is a men’s shelter.”

  “I’m Cynthia Wells. I called and made an appointment with a Mr. Jake Stone.”

  “You’re that reporter lady?”

  Cynthia forced a smile. “Guilty on both counts.”

  “Well, I’m Jake.” He opened the door wider to let her in. “We can talk in my office.”

  As Cynthia followed him she scanned the place, noticing that it smelled disgusting, that the beds were claustrophobically close, and that the shelter was deserted. She decided to zero in on her last observation.

  “Where is everyone?” She took the chair indicated, opposite a desk piled with papers so high they obscured the middle of Jake’s chest when he sat.

  “No one’s allowed in until five, except for those who have jobs. Otherwise, you’d have some of ‘em lying around all day, not even looking for work.”

  “Do most of them work?”

  Jake shook his head. “Not those with drug or mental problems. But some of the others, they manage to find jobs here and there. Some even steady. You said you wanted information? What sort of article are you doing? I mean, what angle are you looking for? It’ll help if we just stick to the facts you need, ‘cause I don’t have much time. We open in an hour and I got things to finish up.”