Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  “You drunken fool! The public restroom is across the hall. This one here’s private.”

  Before she could move toward Stubby, he covered his mouth and made gagging sounds. “Oh . . . I’m gonna be sick,” he said, and ran out of the office, down the hall, and straight out the front door.

  Stubby walked as fast as he dared, stopping from time to time to pull the bottle from his shirt and fake a drink. As he pitched and stumbled down the street, he took every opportunity to get the lay of the land, to see who was where and why. He spotted two Salamanders coming out of Tulio’s Bar, and slowed down. During one of his pretended swigs, he had bumped into three others. The five now converged and were talking. They looked agitated and on edge. Stubby guessed they were high. He would have to get past these five . . . twice more. Like running a gauntlet. And if they uttered a cry of alarm, Stubby had no doubt that more of them would come pouring out of the woodwork.

  Stubby tried to picture Jesus’ face, not because he was afraid, but to remind himself that no matter what was going to happen here, God was in control.

  Jonathan paced the floor of his office, staring at the clock. Three times he had reached for the phone and three times he had thought better of it. He had been wrestling with this ever since Stubby had come and told him about Willie Tanner. But what if Stubby was wrong? Then Jonathan’s phone call could destroy a life. Set Willie back so far it would take months, perhaps years, for him to trust anyone, again. And where was Stubby anyway? He had asked to borrow Jonathan’s car. Said he’d be back in an hour. That was two hours ago, around the time Jonathan had sent Aunt Adel home with the promise they’d do dinner another night. She had understood the emergency and left. But Jonathan had yet to act. He wanted to talk to Stubby one more time before involving the police.

  Jonathan stopped in the middle of the floor and watched the large, black hand of the desk clock tick off more time. He was getting an uneasy feeling. Not only about this whole Willie Tanner thing but about where Stubby had gone, and why. He suspected it had something to do with Cynthia and Effie. Stubby had seemed worried about them when he left. Now, that he thought of it, Jonathan had never seen Effie so distracted, either. Twice she dropped a dish at lunch and when he talked to her about the increase in the Day Care budget, something she had been hounding him about for weeks, she stammered “that’s nice,” and walked away. And hadn’t Cynthia been rather cryptic when she talked about an errand she and Effie were going on? She had even asked for prayer. She never did that. For all Jonathan knew, the three of them were in danger. His stomach turned at the thought of something happening to Cynthia. It made him pick up the phone and finally call Detective Steve Bradley.

  Then he began praying.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Cynthia watched Effie mouthing prayers. She hoped they were getting through, penetrating the heavenlies and finding their way to the holy in-box because one mistake, one cry of alarm, and all three of them would be dead. She glanced at her watch and nodded to Jeff. “It’s time.”

  Perspiration poured down Jeff’s face as he gnawed his lip so hard Cynthia thought he was going to bite it off. “This ain’t gonna work. I’m telling you, this ain’t gonna work.”

  Effie walked over to her son and stroked his wet hair. “No matter what happens, I love you. You hear? You remember that.”

  Jeff nodded and fingered his back pocket where he had put his switchblade. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  They walked silently down the hall, the two women in back, Jeff in front. They had barely gone ten feet when the tattooed blonde approached. “You finished with the office?”

  “Yeah.” Jeff made a slicing motion across his neck. “Give Tulio’s Bar a call, will you?” It was Jeff’s prearranged signal that would alert the gang the interview was over.

  The blonde nodded. “Sure thing.” Then she gave Cynthia a dirty look and walked away.

  “Keep praying,” Cynthia whispered as she slipped her arm through Effie’s. She held onto Effie until they got outside, then released her and looked around. The streets were emptying. People were going home. Twilight was not far away. Perhaps God would use this to their advantage. That, and the element of surprise. The waiting gang was expecting the women on foot. Maybe by the time they figured it out, it would be too late.

  Cynthia checked her watch. Stubby should be here any minute. That is if he was on schedule—if nothing had happened. She felt exposed on the sidewalk, and huddled closer to Effie. She could see by Effie’s face, by the way Effie kept glancing at her son, that all of Effie’s thoughts were on him.

  Jeff was clearly agitated. He jerked when he moved and kept running his tongue over his mouth. For a minute he looked like he was going to bolt. But then Stubby showed up in Jonathan’s old black Toyota and Jeff pulled open the door and shoved the ladies inside. Then he ran around the front and slipped in beside Stubby.

  “Step on it, man!”

  Stubby didn’t have to be told twice. He did a quick U-ie, then sped back the way he came. Cynthia looked out the window in time to see the buxom blonde scream and shake her fist, then run inside, no doubt to call Tulio’s Bar, again.

  The Salamanders would be waiting.

  Jonathan opened the door of his office to admit Detective Steve Bradley. He was amazed at how fast the detective had gotten here.

  “So, where is he now?” Steve asked, taking large strides around the office, touching objects as he went.

  “I assume you mean Willie Tanner. The last time I saw him he was in the TV room.”

  Steve stopped by a wall plaque. “‘Blessed is he who considers the poor . . . the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble.’ You still believe that? I mean, with you almost having two homicides right here. Where was the Lord in time of trouble? Huh?”

  Jonathan sat down. “I’d say He was right here. Neither of them died, remember?”

  “Yeah, I guess you could twist it that way. But I think it’s a lot of hooey. And I’ve got to be honest. I consider people like you pretty useless. You flutter two inches off the ground spouting platitudes and looking for paradise, while the rest of us try to deal with the real world and make it a little better. That’s why I can’t understand what Cynthia sees in you.”

  Jonathan’s heart jumped. It hadn’t occurred to him that Cynthia considered him more than a friend.

  Steve finally took the empty seat and stretched his legs. “I’ll need to talk to Stubby before I do anything about Tanner.”

  Jonathan nodded. “I thought he’d be back by now . . . actually I’m a little worried. He said he’d be back within . . . .”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I’m not sure. But after Effie and Cynthia, I think. Wherever that is.”

  Steve cursed under his breath. “I had hoped Cynthia would just send the mother. Guess I should have known better. She’s a reporter and can’t help herself. No more than I could help it if . . . .”

  “Where is she?”

  “The Projects to meet with Effie’s son.”

  “Isn’t he a gang member? One of those . . . .”

  “Salamanders. Yeah.”

  “And you let her go?”

  Steve’s eyebrows arched. “You can’t stop Cynthia from doing anything she sets her mind on. You better understand that if you ever think you’re going to have a chance with her. But for the record, I did try to stop her. And Cynthia isn’t stupid. Even though I sometimes accuse her of acting like she is. She knew what she was getting into.”

  Jonathan closed his eyes. All day the Lord had kept an image of a reptile before him. Jonathan knew it was the symbol of one of the gangs and had believed it was a call to pray for them. But he had also sensed an evil that was stronger than anything Jonathan had ever experienced. Now, he understood.

  No, Cynthia had no clue what she was getting into.

  “Where’s your car?” Jonathan said, leaping out of his chair.

  “Out front, why?”

  “We’re going to the Projects.”
r />   Even before they reached Tulio’s, Cynthia could see that a large group had gathered around the bar and were fanning out onto the street. A human blockade. They were forming a human blockade. “Stubby . . . .”

  “Yeah, I see ‘em.”

  “You gotta plow through, man. Just plow through. If you slow down, we’re all dead.” Jeff vibrated in his seat, his head jerking this way and that to see out both sides of the car.

  “What are you going to do, Stubby?” Cynthia said, unable to keep the panic from her voice.

  “Jeff’s right. I ain’t slowin’ down. I gotta make ‘em think I’ll run ‘em over.”

  Cynthia felt the car accelerate. She closed her eyes. They were really moving now—faster, faster. She heard that swishing noise a car makes when it whizzes past something. When she heard shouting, she opened her eyes in time to see a young man raise a gun and point it at her. A bullet shattered her window on entry and Effie’s on exit. She saw bodies running in all directions trying to get away from the car. She heard sporadic gunfire. A ping, then a clanking sound told Cynthia a bullet had pierced one of the doors. When the car skidded, she knew a tire had been shot out.

  “Keep going! Keep going!” Jeff shouted. “Whatever you do, man, don’t stop.”

  “Front tire’s flat!” Stubby said, clutching the vibrating steering wheel. A heavy chain came crashing down on the hood, then another one landed on top of the car. A third caught the rear bumper, making Stubby lose control. He swerved and almost hit one of the gang members. Cynthia saw terror on the young face as they passed, heard a loud clank as their bumper dropped off.

  They were out of the worst of it. They had passed Tulio’s Bar, but from the back window, Cynthia saw several of the youths firing their guns. She pulled Effie lower onto the seat, then felt the car skid again.

  “They hit the back tire!” Stubby shouted. “We ain’t gonna be able to go much further.”

  “You got to!” Jeff’s hand was on the vibrating wheel, trying to help Stubby straighten it. “Ride the rims. Just don’t stop. Don’t stop!”

  Cynthia could feel the car slowing, could see the crowd of young men shouting and running behind them, could see with every passing second that the Salamanders were gaining ground.

  “I got lights goin’ on all over the dash. They must’ve hit somethin’,” Stubby shouted.

  The car made a strange death-rattle-type shudder and conked out. Jeff threw open his door and jumped into the street. “Come on, run for it!” he shouted as he struggled to open his mother’s door.

  Cynthia glanced through the back window. It wouldn’t be long before the gang reached them. Could they get away? Jeff might. He was young, fast. But Stubby? He wouldn’t get twenty yards. Neither would Effie. Should she try it on her own? But how could she run away and leave her friends? And how many more Salamanders waited up ahead? She watched, as if it were a movie: Jeff opening the back door and trying to pull his mother out.

  “Come on, run for it!” he shouted. But Effie was having trouble unfastening her seatbelt and pleaded with her son to go and save himself.

  Cynthia didn’t move. It was partly fear, partly a reluctance to leave the others. But mostly it was because she felt safer in the car, safer in this cocoon of metal that could grant her some protection of what was to come; perhaps add a few precious seconds of life to her account. Through the back window she could clearly see faces, now. Young, angry faces. She heard shouts, like war cries, rise to a deafening pitch. She closed her eyes. Only God could save them now. She heard the sound of stampeding feet, the sound of gun fire, the sound of cursing, and way off in the distance . . . the sound of a police siren. Cynthia opened her eyes and watched in disbelief as the Salamanders scattered to the four winds. But it wasn’t until the unmarked car, with its pulsating light, pulled up next to them and Cynthia saw Jonathan and Steve’s face, that she actually believed she’d live to see her thirty-first birthday.

  In a flash, Jonathan and Steve opened their doors and jumped onto the deserted street. Steve’s gun was drawn. Then Stubby, Cynthia and Effie tumbled out of their car. Effie went up to Jeff, weeping and laughing at the same time, and running her hands over her son as though making sure no bullet had found its mark. Stubby walked in a circle around the car, shaking his head.

  Cynthia stood still, watching Jonathan approach her. When he was close enough, she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. When she felt his arms encircle her, she began to cry.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

  Cynthia shook her head. “No it isn’t. Look what we’ve done to your car.” She felt Jonathan’s chest heave as he laughed.

  “I never liked it anyway. Now, I have an excuse to get another one.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “This wasn’t necessary,” Cynthia said, bouncing in the back of a cab with Jonathan.

  “Maybe not, but I wanted to come.”

  Cynthia rested her head against the seat back. “Well, I appreciate it.” She closed her eyes. It had been a long day . . . and night.

  “Of course I would have driven you myself . . . .”

  “Don’t even go there,” Cynthia said, laughing. She opened her eyes and turned to him. “But this has made a believer out of me. I can’t deny the existence of God anymore. By all rights I shouldn’t be here. Stubby, Effie and Jeff—none of us should be alive. When I saw Steve’s car pull up, with that red light flashing, I knew, right then and there, only God could have orchestrated something like that. Or . . . Cecil B. DeMille.”

  Jonathan chuckled and slipped his hand over hers. “No denying that God was with you today.”

  “My head’s still reeling over all of it, including Willie Tanner. I always found him scary, but I never thought . . . never imagined Willie was the one. I can’t get over how Willie’s striped shirt triggered Stubby’s memory. Or that Willie could be foolish enough to wear it again. He must have been pretty cocky, pretty sure that Stubby wouldn’t remember.”

  “It wasn’t just the striped shirt. It was also that tattoo of a reptile. But the police are going to need more if they want a conviction.”

  “Steve told me that since Stubby and I both claim our attacker smelled like fruit, the Medical Examiner’s advice was to look for a type-1 diabetic. According to the ME, a type-1 diabetic can develop ketoacidosis from sudden physical stress. One of the warning signs is fruity-smelling breath.” Cynthia felt his warm, strong hands cradle hers.

  “So, if Willie Tanner is a type-1 diabetic, that might be all the proof the police need to charge him.” He turned toward Cynthia. “I wonder why he did it, supposing it was Willie.”

  “I guess we’ll have to let Steve figure that out.” The car went over a large bump, causing Cynthia’s head to roll onto Jonathan’s shoulder. She left it there.

  Jonathan draped one arm around her and adjusted his position to make her more comfortable. “You know, I had all I could do to keep Stubby from coming tonight. He wanted to stay with you. He thinks you need a bodyguard. He says this isn’t over.”

  “It’s over for me. I’ll take a few days to get all my facts together and then write the piece. But once I’ve turned it in to Bernie, I don’t want to hear the words Salamander, homeless or Skid Row ever again.”

  “Oh . . . .”

  Cynthia squeezed Jonathan’s hand. “Naturally, I want to continue hearing about the mission and Effie and Jeff. What do you think will happen to Jeff?”

  “It’s complicated. Effie told me about Jeff’s knife fight. It’s possible the rival gang member won’t press charges. After all, he’ll be implicating himself, too. We’ll see. If nothing happens with that and Jeff isn’t facing charges, then he and Effie and I will have to sit down and talk about his future. One of the things God has been showing me is that there are no quick fixes for these people. And that if I want to make a difference, I need to start a mentoring program, take those individuals who are interested, under my wing, in a manner of speaking. Some
of these people don’t even know how to go on an interview. What’s more, when they get a job, they don’t have the discipline to get up morning after morning and show up, never mind show up on time.”

  “When you talk like that, it makes it sound so hopeless.” Cynthia watched Jonathan turn her hand over in his. Just his touch, just having him close, gave her a feeling of security.

  “It’s not hopeless. Just hard. I’ve been toying with this idea for some time. Maybe now would be the right time to implement it.”

  Cynthia lifted her head from Jonathan’s shoulder and saw, by the street lights, the excitement on his face.

  “The mentor program would stick with a guy from beginning to end—from the time he comes in for help to the time he’s able to stand on his own two feet and support himself. One entire floor of the mission would house those in the program. And it would be tailored to individual needs, whatever they were—encouraging them to get a high school diploma, job training or drug rehab. Teaching them how to go on an interview, how to handle finances and a check book, etc. And it goes without saying, there would be plenty of Bible studies and prayer time.”

  Cynthia sighed. “Sounds like you’re going to need more staff. It might even work. But regarding Jeff, I don’t know. He’s bitter and angry, and discipline’s the last thing he’s interested in. And that’s the dilemma, isn’t it? You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink.”

  “No, I can’t. If Jeff doesn’t want to do it, I can’t make him. I’ve got to leave that to God. He can change any heart.”

  Cynthia leaned closer to the window as they passed the Starbucks where she got her coffee everyday. In less than five minutes she’d be home. She glanced at Jonathan and wished it would take another hour. She leaned back in the seat, her shoulder touching his. “I’ve never known anyone like you. When you thought I was a homeless nobody, you were willing to pay a lawyer for me and now, Jeff. He’s nothing to you. Just a kid with a chip on his shoulder who got the raw end of the stick. Why would you go out of your way to help him?”