“I guess that’s the part of your story you haven’t gotten down. The part that covers forgiveness and mercy. I’ve been praying for you to understand it.”
The cab rolled to a stop and Cynthia looked past Jonathan to her apartment. “You want to come in and explain?”
Jonathan shook his head. “No, but I’ll walk you to the door.” He helped her out, then took her arm as they strolled up the sidewalk.
Cynthia pulled the apartment key from her pocket. “You sure?”
“We’re both exhausted.”
She nodded and smiled then put her arms around his neck and kissed him, a long lingering kiss on the lips. When she parted, she saw a look of surprise on his face but sensed, too, that if she kissed him again, he wouldn’t mind. Then, without turning back, she entered her apartment and closed the door.
Cynthia sat in front of the computer blocking out the noise of the busy newsroom and banging out her piece for Bernie. The words seemed to flow faster than her fingers. She put it all in, snippets from interviews she had done with more than three dozen homeless men and women, the drug connection, the two attempted murders, the early retirement of the Social Service worker. She even threw in the questionable and untimely death of Reverend Gates, and she ended by quoting Charles Angus and his declaration of war. Let Bernie cut what he wanted. She wasn’t going to hold anything back.
The phone rang and she ignored it until she heard Steve’s voice, then picked it up.
“What was that you were saying?”
“I was saying it turns out that our boy, Willie, has got type-1 diabetes. And you’ll never guess who Willie worked for, on those rare occasions when he did work.”
“Ah . . . I give up.” Cynthia squinted at her monitor. Five pages. The word count was going to be a problem. Let Bernie worry about it. Let him cut.
“Alliance Bakery.”
Cynthia almost dropped the phone. “Say that again.”
“Alliance Bakery. He was one of their drivers.”
Cynthia’s mind began running a marathon as she grabbed a pad and pen. “What’s the connection, Steve? My gut’s telling me there’s a connection. Now, what is it?”
“My gut told me the same thing. And the only thing I come up with is drugs.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yup. Drugs are being moved into the Angus Avenue Men’s Shelter via Alliance delivery trucks.”
“On the other hand, it could be a coincidence.”
“Sure, Wells. And there really could be a tooth fairy.”
“We’ve got to slow down. Think this through. We’re handling dynamite here, and we’ve got to be careful. Just remember, Steve, Charles Angus employs a lot of homeless. The reason he keeps his distribution and glass factory open is to provide employment for those who come to Skid Row. Maybe he views Alliance in the same vein.”
“Maybe.”
“And even if you find that Alliance is delivering drugs to the shelters, it doesn’t mean Angus knows about it. It could all be happening behind his back. The man’s a leading citizen, for crying out loud. He’s promised to combat the drug problem. He’s someone who believes in giving back.”
“I guess now we have to determine who he believes in giving back to—others or himself.”
“What will you do?”
“We’ll stake out the bakery and the shelters, and we’ll follow every one of those trucks until we’re satisfied that their deliveries are only sugar and flour.”
“If Angus gets wind of this . . . .”
“He wouldn’t. There’s just one person at the Department who knows Angus is connected to Alliance, and it’s someone I trust. In addition to that, I’m keeping Tanner on ice. I figure we’ve got forty-eight hours—seventy-two at most—to come up with something before the lid comes off. After that, I’ll need compelling evidence to continue.”
“You’re forgetting one thing. If Angus’s hands are dirty, then he’ll have friends at the station who are on the payroll. He could have a legion of people who’ll try to cover up . . . who may have been covering for him for years. That means . . . .”
“That means my window will be more like twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
“It means you’ve got to be very careful.”
“Wells, I thought we established you no longer care for me, that the odds of us getting back together were zero-zero and . . . .”
“And don’t forget, I get the story. Before you throw any of those hounds at the station your bones, I want them first.”
“Your Trib reporter at the precinct isn’t going to like that.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll square it with Bernie.”
“Okay. And thanks.”
“For what?”
“For smacking me between the eyes that it’s really over between us.”
After Cynthia told Bernie about Steve’s phone call, she went back to her desk and called Jonathan. It took five full minutes for someone to find him, then another five minutes to convince him to have lunch with her. Then Cynthia hung up and flew out of the office.
Cynthia sat in the clean, well-worn booth of the South Oberon Diner staring at the handsome man across from her.
“I’m glad you came,” Cynthia said softly.
“And I’m glad you asked. Although I’ve left a ton of work behind. I’ve been thinking about you all morning. But then I suppose that kiss last night was meant to keep you in my thoughts.”
“Yup. A little like ginkgo biloba—to stimulate the memory cells.”
“It succeeded.”
Cynthia looked at her watch, then eyed the approaching waitress. “I know you have a counseling appointment and I promised I wouldn’t make you miss it, so just order me something quick. A burger will do fine.” She sat quietly while Jonathan ordered two burgers and two iced teas.
When the waitress left, Cynthia leaned over the table. “I wanted to see you because I got a disturbing call from Steve Bradley.” She filled Jonathan in on the details then waited for his reaction. He just sat and stared.
“Well? What do you think?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s not Angus at all. Maybe it’s someone in his organization who’s behind all this.”
“Any ideas?”
“That would explain Bill Rivers.” He told her of the frustrating encounters he had had with Bill. “I don’t think we should rush to judgment. We need to wait and see what Steve comes up with. But I find it disturbing.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“You have a spare couch?”
“What?”
“Do you have a spare couch? Big enough for someone to sleep on?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because Stubby’s still bugging me about staying with you until this thing is over. And now, all things considered, I think it’s a good idea.”
Cynthia pulled a napkin from the chrome dispenser and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a private person, Jonathan. I’m not used to having people in and out of my apartment.”
“You managed okay at the mission. And if you can eat and sleep with a building full of strangers, this shouldn’t be difficult. Besides, it would just be for a little while. And it would mean a lot to me . . . knowing that Stubby was there looking out for you. I’d feel better.”
“Would you?” Cynthia pressed the napkin between her palms and remembered the feeling of security she had had in the cab when he held her hand between his. But this overly zealous concern for her was out of character, even for him.
She leaned against the orange, vinyl seat, trying to think of what to say, trying to understand his motives. She had noticed how his eyes got soft when he spoke to people, and animated when he talked about God. But there was a new look she had never seen in them before and it took a moment to recognize.
Fear.
He was afraid for her.
“Why don’t you come and stay on that couch yourself?”
Cynthia put the napkin on her lap, then reached over and took Jonathan’s hand. “What happens with people like us? I mean, I don’t date pastors and you don’t date older women.”
“I’ve been praying about it . . . about us.”
“Well, thank you for that, anyway.”
“You do know . . . naturally you would know . . . that I’m looking for a woman who is like-minded.”
Cynthia smiled and squeezed his hand. “Of course I know that. So have there been many like-minded women who interested you?”
“No.”
“But surely you’ve had girlfriends or lovers?”
“Girlfriends, yes. Lovers no—not in the sense you mean. I’m a pastor, remember?”
“But surely there’s been someone special?”
Jonathan frowned and looked uncomfortable. “There was someone . . . once,” he said, slowly. “Lydia . . . she was the daughter of a prominent pastor.”
“Sounds like a perfect match.”
“As it turned out, it wasn’t.”
“What happened?”
“She didn’t want to be a preacher’s wife. She said she had spent her entire life living in church, and now she wanted to find out what it would be like to live in the world. Sometimes this happens to preacher’s kids.”
“You mean they go out and slop pigs?”
Jonathan looked surprised. “You know that parable?”
“Well, you’ve preached it often enough.”
“And you listened?”
Cynthia felt annoyed when the waitress came with their food and she had to release his hand. She watched him pick up the large sesame bun on his plate and take a man-sized bite. Everything he did, he did totally and with gusto. It would never be halfway with him. She wondered if she was ready for that. It took only a second to realize the answer was yes. It took another second to realize she had been waiting for someone like Jonathan for a long time.
I’m looking for a woman who is like-minded.
Would she ever be like-minded? Jonathan was far too committed to God and had far too much integrity to settle for less. And she had enough integrity to keep from faking it, even for someone like Jonathan.
“Tell Stubby I’ll be home around seven. I’ll leave a spare key under the mat. If he gets there before I do, he can let himself in.” Cynthia picked up her burger and took a bite. She saw a look of relief wash over Jonathan’s face. Yes, she had been waiting a long time for someone like Jonathan. And now that she found him, she didn’t know how it was ever going to work out.
After freshening up the bathroom, Cynthia laid out clean sheets and towels for Stubby. She chose her best ones: Her Antoinette Blue sateen sheets and matching Azure ringspun towels. She glanced at the wall clock. Not quite seven. She had come home earlier than expected because she wanted to do a few things before Stubby got there. She couldn’t believe how nervous and . . . excited she was. She still hadn’t gotten over his generosity . . . his forgiveness of her great sin. She knew he would never mention it again. And though her nightmares had stopped, she had yet to feel any real peace over the matter.
She fluttered around her apartment wondering how she was going to entertain Stubby. Should she cook dinner? And what about breakfast? She rarely shared her home with anyone. She thought there was irony in the fact that she was doing so now with a homeless man, a man who, a few months ago, wouldn’t have gotten the time of day.
Now, he was so dear.
The doorbell rang and Cynthia raced to answer it. Within seconds, she ushered in a short, smiling man holding a pizza box in one hand and an overnight bag in the other.
“Hope you like mushrooms and pepperoni,” Stubby said, following Cynthia into the kitchen.
“Love them. That was kind of you to bring dinner. I was just thinking about what I should cook.”
“That’s the point. You ain’t supposed to be cookin’.” Stubby put the pie on the table. “I didn’t bring nothin’ to drink, but water’s fine with me.”
Cynthia laughed. “Me, too.” She watched Stubby wander into the living room, then heard him whistle.
“You got a real swanky place here. I ain’t never stayed in a place as nice as this.” When Cynthia entered, he turned and smiled. “An earthly place, that is. ‘Cause heaven’s beyond anythin’ we got down here.”
“Maybe you can tell me more about it—your heavenly adventure—over dinner,” Cynthia said as she walked back into the kitchen. She pulled dishes and glasses from one of the cabinets and set the table. When she finished she stepped back. To one side was her Edelstein made-in-Germany white china with its delicate green and brown pattern. Lenox crystal water goblets stood, like sentries, next to the plates. Centered in the middle of the table was a crystal bud vase containing the single yellow rose she had cut from her small flower garden that morning. Next to that was the pizza box.
A study in the ridiculous.
Cynthia laughed to herself and pulled out green linen napkins, then placed one next to each plate.
Might as well complete the folly.
She walked to the hutch and retrieved two sterling silver knives and forks from the drawer and placed them on the table. She may not enjoy cooking, but she loved setting a handsome table.
When she was done, she glanced at Stubby who had been watching the whole comedy from the doorway.
“I hope you ain’t gonna fuss like this every time we eat.”
Cynthia laughed and shook her head. “Our first dinner together should be special. After that, it’s paper plates.”
“You even own a paper plate?”
Cynthia walked up to Stubby and gave him a hug. “Of course not.”
Jonathan had been sitting in his office for hours. Even when Miss Emily came and tried to get him to go to dinner, he had refused. Ever since coming back from lunch with Cynthia he had been disturbed—on two counts. First, his attraction to Cynthia was becoming overwhelming. The second point was even more troubling. Cynthia’s revelation about Alliance caused him to think about something he had been mulling over for a long time. Stubby had told him about the death of Reverend Gates, including his suspicion that it wasn’t accidental. Now, for the first time, Jonathan was beginning to wonder if there might be something to it. Between the mammoth laundry room and the rooms used as classrooms, the basement saw its share of traffic. But since coming to Beacon Mission, Jonathan had yet to find a reason for visiting it late at night. According to Stubby, the Medical Examiner believed Gates had fallen down the stairs and died between one and two a.m.. Why would Gates go down to the basement so late?
Why would anyone?
Jonathan rolled a pencil between the palms of his hands. For more than an hour he had been mulling that question over in his mind. Along with the Angus Avenue Men’s Shelter, Alliance Bakery supplied the mission as well. And that’s what kept sticking in his mind. If Alliance was running drugs to the men’s shelter, had they also been running drugs to the mission? And if the answer was yes, that could explain what Reverend Gates was doing on those cellar stairs at one in the morning. Because if Gates found out about it and was trying to discover where the drugs were stored, and waited until there was no one to disturb him in order to investigate, then a one o’clock trip to the basement made perfect sense. And if someone caught him going down and thought Gates suspected something, then a push, a shove, a murder, also made sense.
Jonathan rose to his feet. Maybe it was time to check out the basement.
Cynthia watched Stubby wipe his mouth with the linen napkin then wad it into a ball next to his plate. Throughout their meal she had observed that Stubby was a man with little polish. He chewed with his mouth open, talked with his mouth full, used his knife like a fork, burped without apology, and preferred to wipe his mouth on his sleeve rather than a napkin. She looked at his deeply lined face, his large kind eyes, his sweet smile. She couldn’t remember when
she enjoyed a meal more, that is if she didn’t count lunch with Jonathan today.
“Did you ever think you’d have a bum stayin’ in your house?”
Cynthia got up and filled his goblet with more filtered water from the refrigerator, then sat back down. “You’re not a bum, Stubby.”
“Well . . . not no more. Not since the Lord got hold of me. But when I seen Jeff, I swear Cynthia, it was like I was lookin’ at myself in the mirror, you know? I grew up like him. My dad would come home drunk as a skunk, and beat the tar out of everyone. Yeah . . . Effie told me all about Jeff’s dad. And everythin’ she said, it was like she was describin’ my own father. I hated that man. And that’s what drives you—all that hate, all that rejection and hurt. You wanna strike out and hurt somebody, too. That’s why I joined the Salamanders. Even then, they was around. Nothin’ changes. Now, I understand why. We got this here adversary, the devil, who’s lookin’ to see who he can mess up. ‘Course you probably don’t believe in the devil. But he’s real and he’ll use anythin’, even gangs to destroy kids, to kill their dreams, their future.”
Cynthia absently traced stick men on the table with her finger. “Life isn’t fair, is it?”
Stubby took a giant bite of his fourth slice of pizza, chewed it quickly, then swallowed. “It ain’t about fair or unfair. It’s about winnin’ a prize. A prize the devil don’t want us to win. I seen Jesus’ face, Cynthia. And when He looked into my eyes, I knew, I knew that all I had gone through was nothin’ compared with what I had to look forward to with Him for all eternity. That’s the prize. This life—you blink and it’s over. The real prize—it’s Him, God Himself. And it’s forever.”
Cynthia put down her glass and rose to clean up the dishes. Stubby was talking crazy. She didn’t believe a word he said. At least not the last part. She pulled a large Ziploc bag from the drawer and stuffed the leftover pizza in it. But if it was true, if there was any possibility it was true, then she wanted that prize, too. But the thing about prizes was that only a few got them. And if that was the case, what made her think she’d qualify? What made her think Jesus would want her?
Mercy at Midnight Page 33