Satisfied that God would do such a small thing on her behalf, she relaxed a little and let out a sigh. One of her small hands clutched the steering wheel while the other fiddled with the knobs for the A/C. The A/C was as stubborn as Delilah. “If I had another way of getting around and wasn’t already three months behind on this piece of crap, I’d leave it in the middle of the street.”
As she pushed her neon red, leased 2003 Navigator through the busy streets of Brooklyn’s East New York streets, she pleaded, “Come on, Jesus. I wanna get there before the choir goes up and the Rapture comes.”
There wasn’t much gas in the tank, but she believed God. Even if He wouldn’t touch the air-conditioning, He would get her to church on time, even if it had to be on fumes. And then Delilah suddenly took up from an earlier prayer she’d had with God, and reminded Him, “I know I promised You, when You let me keep this latest car out of the clutches of the repo man, that I’d serve You more often, but I still need Your help. I need help in paying that three months’ back note....
“Lord,” Delilah continued, “there’s that one thing I know I keep bothering You about. But if I don’t bring it before You, who can I bring it before?” The sound of a blaring car horn shook Delilah. She realized that she was idling at a stop sign and not a red light. Since she was on her way to church, she decided not to flip the bird to the driver behind her.
Her attention was still on her driving, and she continued talking to God. “I know there’re other problems in this cold, cruel world that occupy Your time. And just like I know folks say that You leave the past in the past, I want to thank You for being bothered with me and all my shame and hurt.”
And then Delilah lowered her voice as though it were someone else in the car other than her and God. “I mean specifically the shame of having that breakdown, and me leaving my husband and putting my baby boy, Jessie, in foster care all those years ago. I’m sure they’re doing quite well without me and my family curse. I remember throughout most of my teenage years, my mama taught me that it seems like the Jewels just don’t shine that well here on earth....
“Y’all sing that chorus just one more time,” Delilah murmured through her car window that particular Sunday as she pulled into the New Hope Assembly Church’s huge parking lot. Happy she was able to park not too far from the sanctuary, she rolled down her window and braved the heat. The huge, air-conditioned church’s windows were closed, but she could still hear them praising God. Delilah swung her tiny hands from side to side and tapped the steering wheel like a choir director. Oh, how she did enjoy directing a good song almost as much as she did singing one. “Awww, come on now. Give God the glory!”
Delilah’s attempt at pleasing her God caused her to spread her worship among several churches in Harlem and Brooklyn. New Hope was surely becoming one of her favorites. It was the third time she’d visited and praised God from their parking lot. She’d come to choose her place of worship according to which she thought had the best music. So many times the music that poured through open stained-glass windows or oversized amplifiers tugged at her spirit and fed her soul.
And yet, true to her word, as soon as it became time for God’s message to come forth with all the loud preaching that was brought with it, along with the begging for money part of the service, she’d always drive off before it began. Delilah always managed to feel good after giving God His worship, on her terms.
However, soon enough Delilah would receive a message of another sort. God, omniscient and the author of the final word for all mankind, had had just about enough of Delilah’s customized worship service. God was about to checkmate the old gal and she’d never see it coming.
Chapter 3
Before she could put the car in gear, several people filed through the church’s side exit door. She’d never seen that happen before a service ended. “Well, it’s time for me to get out of here.” She was just about to turn on her ignition when she heard a voice.
“Delilah?”
Delilah swung her head around and peeked out through the driver’s side rolled-down window. She’d moved too fast; something she didn’t normally do when she heard her name called, without checking to see if there was drama attached to it.
“Delilah?” There was no mistaking that male voice. It sounded closer and a bit more confident than it had a moment ago. But now it had more of an accusatory tone than a questioning one. “Woman, stop trying to act like it ain’t you.”
The tall, dark-skinned man lumbered toward the passenger side of Delilah’s car. Only a few feet separated him from the Navigator.
“Delilah Dupree . . .” The man reached the car before he could complete her name for the third time. He had a dark jacket flung over his arm and wore a black-and-white polka-dot shirt and matching bow tie. His white pants didn’t quite fit right, but the suspenders made certain they wouldn’t fall off his lanky body. And the hair—a little sparser than the last time Delilah had laid eyes upon it—still appeared shiny and hard, as though it would crack if touched.
The sight of the man’s hair pulled Delilah back to her senses. Anger replaced her fear and any other feeling she’d felt a second ago. Dayum, is that fool still wearing a conk?
Before she could put the car in drive, he was standing in front of it like he dared her to take off and risk running him over.
“Excuse me?” Delilah’s mind went into warp speed but didn’t take a single innovative thought with it. All she could say was, “I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“Heffa, please.” The man’s dark eyes narrowed as he cautiously walked over to the driver’s side and stared. His eyes looked like two brown pieces of steel as he placed his Bible on the roof of the Navigator. Without turning his cold eyes away, he pointed at the front of the car. “Now, unless you stole this monster, why does your license plate have Delilah on it?”
“So what if it does?” she shot back. She always knew that one day her oversized ego would land her in hot water with her vanity plate.
The man was about to say something more when several congregation members suddenly came along. Still wearing the smile of a Holy Ghost good time, one of the men greeted the deacon as he nodded toward Delilah. “Praise the Lord, Deacon Pillar. You sure gave God His due this morning.”
“Well, God is good all the time. . . .” the deacon answered without removing his Bible off the car or his eyes off Delilah.
If the men felt slighted because Deacon Pillar didn’t greet them with a handshake or even a glance—and never mind no introduction to the very attractive woman behind the wheel—they never showed it. The other man simply added before moving on, “And all the time God is good.”
Before the men barely got out of earshot, Delilah started in on the man. “Deacon—so you’re a deacon now?” Again, Delilah had spoken in haste. She’d forgotten that she’d not actually admitted to being his Delilah. What she’d meant to do was to just drive away, and if the Bible remained on the car’s roof, then so be it. She didn’t need a blast from the past to mess up her future. She certainly didn’t want this particular one now.
Her tiny fingers buzzed across her steering wheel and her mind kept grappling with her situation. So help me if I get back home to Garden City, Long Island, I will not be coming back this way again.
Before her stood yet another reason why she didn’t have friends or acquaintances; they usually brought the type of trouble she didn’t want. She avoided friends the way she avoided fatty foods. Both would eventually lead to high blood pressure or a stroke.
But the man wasn’t through. “If I hadn’t been inside my church this morning and praising God in all His glory, I just might’ve wanted to cuss you out when I first saw you.” He stopped and shook his head. “Lord knows, I should’ve just stayed inside until the church meeting started. . . .”
“You were up in your church? If you’re so much into your church, then what kind of religion you got that makes you wanna cuss someone out when you first lay eyes on them
?”
“I got the kind that’s kept me for a lot of years since you took off for wherever your kind goes to.”
“Well, good for you.” Delilah’s gray eyes didn’t blink as they swept the deacon from his conk to his white loafers before she hissed, “Just let me get out of here before you lose what little religion you say you have, along with that precious, outdated conk and whatever else you got going on these days.” It wasn’t what she really wanted to say, but that’s what came out.
“Lord help me to protect my blood pressure and ignore her nasty remark about my conk.”
He’d worn a conk since he was seventeen. He’d worn one when he was twenty-six and met her. Back then she was a homeless, yet talented, eighteen-year-old Delilah. He’d even worn one when they eventually dated and set the world afire, and he’d wear one until he was a hundred and seventeen if he chose.
Deacon Pillar laid his arm across the sill of the car window and leaned in. He came close enough to Delilah to kiss her. “To my eternal shame, I always wondered, from time to time, just how I’d feel if I ever saw you again. And now God has delivered you right to the doorstep of New Hope Assembly and I’m not sure I like that. In fact, I know I don’t.”
Delilah moved over a few inches just in case she needed to swing. “Oh, so now you hate me? You just finished praising God and you want to cuss and hate me?”
“No, I don’t hate you. I pity you.”
“Pity me!” She became so angry her small frame seemed to almost levitate off the seat. “You pity me! Who the hell are you to pity me?”
“I’m the same one who pitied you forty years ago—”
“Save your damn pity!” Delilah’s small chest heaved as though she were having an asthma attack. “Go on back inside your church. I don’t need to keep coming around here. There’re other churches. . . .”
“At least you’ve figured that much out.” The deacon pointed his finger at Delilah and snapped, “Just so you know . . .”
“Just so I know what?” Delilah barked. “That finger don’t scare me as much as that damn conk.”
The deacon’s face again stiffened at the insult, but he let it roll off and continued, “Just so you know, I truly have turned my life over to Jesus. I’m just telling you so you’ll do the decent thing—in case you’re lying as always—and truly stay the hell away from here—”
He was just getting started, but the deacon never had a chance to finish his rant.
Suddenly, from somewhere deep within her, Delilah gathered her wits and more strength than she’d felt in quite some time. “Well, at least you can’t blame the devil for your still nasty attitude.”
Delilah slammed her tiny foot down on the accelerator and took off. The Bible flew off the roof of the Navigator and landed at a stunned Deacon Pillar’s feet, opened to the Book of Revelation.
From SOMEBODY’S SINNING IN MY BED
Chapter 1
Violent March winds swirled viciously along Brooklyn, New York’s Linden Boulevard, showing little respect for a supposedly holy and consecrated Sunday night. From the second earth took its form, God set that seventh day aside for everything He’d created to praise His work. However, as if mocking God, the very winds He’d created angrily kicked around empty wine and liquor bottles along a small section of Linden Boulevard that struggled to hide its poverty. Small yet powerful wind funnels seemed to mock heaven as they propelled scraps of paper toward the night sky. In a blink of an eye, it then turned its anger on small, colorful plastic crack vials, tossing them against the street curbs like dice.
And then, without a warning, evil shifted its shape and intention as it prepared to release its minions.
That night, chaos of another sort was about to visit Linden Boulevard and fierce gusts of winds and signs of poverty along that stretch were the least of its problems. That night, some folks would learn that what goes around certainly does come back around, bringing with it the proverbial flip-top can of vicious comeuppance.
Farther down Linden Boulevard the distant purring of an automobile somehow reached through the howling wind to make its presence known. As if on cue, a nearby broken streetlight suddenly flickered, revealing a slow-moving powder-blue 2006 Mercedes.
The car’s driver found a spot, parked, and slowly stepped out. The embers of a lit cigarette flickered as a figure of a man was outlined. He puffed once more before tossing it to the ground.
As if accepting the challenge to step up its evil, the wind suddenly changed its direction toward the Mercedes, abandoning its game of tossing about litter. Loud wooshing sounds accompanied its assault. It homed in on the rear flap of the man’s expensive chocolate-brown trench coat, causing the material to fan rapidly.
The man suddenly stood still. With eyes narrowed and determined, he looked back toward his car. It was as though he were daring the wind to do its worst. He muttered, “Go to hell!”
He had dark, penetrating brown eyes that were set deep into an extremely tawny-complexioned, handsome face that hinted of a possible mixed heritage. Then he sucked in a deep breath of night air as though it were his last.
He’d only taken a few steps when one hand suddenly flew up and grabbed at the tan fedora about to fall off his head. He was too slow. The wind would not be denied and blew the expensive fedora into the middle of the filthy street.
Through it all, he kept his eyes focused and determined. Without a word, he walked a few feet and retrieved the hat, placing it snug onto his head, and turned back to the sidewalk. He’d ignored the filth not so much from fear, but almost as a reflex because of what he was about to do. With his hat now secured, he used the same hand to hold the front of his coat, not wanting anyone to see what he had hidden.
There was no turning back now.
Across the street there was a working streetlight. It burned bright on the man as he crossed the street as though to make up for those lights that didn’t.
The man moved toward a two-story building nestled between a totally abandoned building and a closed Neighborhood Multi-Service Center. He came within a few feet of his destination and stopped. Despite the darkness, he could see clearly through a small square glass pane. He scowled briefly at a sleeping, obese man.
The portly man was supposed to be alert, but it was nighttime and sleep had claimed the bouncer for the Sweet Bush. Despite nodding off in a deep coma-like sleep and snoring like a bull with asthma, he somehow managed to keep from falling off a stool that was much too small for his wide girth.
The man was tempted to snatch off his unclean fedora, slap the bouncer, and stuff one of those disgusting snores back down his throat, but he needed to stick to the plan.
The man hugged his coat again, against a body that had been well worked out and buffed. Being a bit of a health fanatic, he hadn’t even started smoking until recently when it seemed as though his life was falling apart and brought him to where he now stood.
With one hand, he angrily pushed hard against the oak wood door. The door swung open and closed quickly. It almost nipped the hip of the man as he poured into the front room of the Sweet Bush Lounge.
Noise affected the bouncer much like a sleeping pill; with his barrel chest heaving slightly, he shifted his weight on the stool and continued sleeping soundly.
In a deep sleep, the bouncer would not be a problem.
Fool. The man suppressed a rising growl in his throat as he dismissed the bouncer as a threat. He chose, instead, to adjust his eyes to the dim lounge lights. While he slowed his heart to a manageable beat, he stood transfixed between the panels of a red velvet curtain and peered through a wall of love beads. His handsome face was stoic. With little effort he inhaled the streams of thick, cloudy, cigarette and reefer smoke for what seemed like an eternity.
But it wasn’t.
It had only taken a moment before he fully understood that none of the other few patrons inside the dark smoky din of lust had paid particular attention to his entrance. Why should they? He wouldn’t be the first, or
hardly the last, to stumble through that door looking peaceful or angry, on the hunt for whatever was forbidden and getting it.
Chapter 2
The Sweet Bush was one of Brooklyn’s worst-kept secrets. There were plenty of folks, young and old, rich and poor, beautiful and downright ugly, flooding in from miles around. They were unfulfilled souls who’d repeatedly risked reputations and relationships to freak nameless others. Full of denial and sex-driven demons, when they left at sunrise, they clung to a hope that their trysts stayed behind, hidden in condoms and disguised inside shot glasses.
The man pulled out the .357 Magnum from where he’d hidden it tucked in his waistband beneath his coat. With the gun now raised chest-high, his eyes searched. Side to side, his hypnotic gaze swept around the hall. With nothing and no one to stop him, he moved on.
As he inched closer to his destination, what moments before had been a purposeful gait suddenly became clumsy.
It’d been some time since he’d secretly visited the Sweet Bush. He’d visit the haunt usually after leaving his young wife crying in their king-size bed, less than satisfied and belittled. He reasoned his wife’s hurt feelings and lack of sexual fulfillment were necessary collateral damage.
After all, he was the Right Reverend Grayson Young. He was the son of the renowned late Bishop Isaiah Young and the late First Lady Mildred Young. It was only natural that upon his father’s death, ten years ago, every leader of faith anointed him Brooklyn’s megachurch phenomenon.
With eyes still blazing, Reverend Young whispered, “One day I’ve got to ask God what He thinks about that.” He snickered at the joke to which only he was privy as he took a quick glance around.
Inside the Sweet Bush, as well as in the Reverend Grayson’s mind, it seemed nothing much had changed since he’d last visited. The laid-back, free-love ambience of the place was the same, and the soft and jazzy music of Kool and the Gang’s “Summer Madness” filled the lounge.
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