More Church Folk

by Michele Andrea Bowen

  “So you want to cash in on that immunity as well, huh?”

  Denzelle looked at Dotsy Hamilton shifting nervously from left foot to right foot and back. He said, “I guess you want immunity as well.”

  “Yes,” Saphronia and Precious said in unison. They didn’t even know why Denzelle Flowers had to ask that stupid question of any of these men. You could just look at Cleotis Clayton in that brick-red silk suit with the short double-breasted coat, black shirt and matching tie, and brick-red gators, and know that he was the kind of brother-man who would be in need of “some immunity.” And this Dotsy Hamilton character, with that yellow three-piece suit with forest-green pinstripes, practically screamed, “IMMUNITY PLEASE!”

  Denzelle raised up his hands to agree to the immunity promise.

  “Bishop Hemphill and Bishop Giles,” Cleotis began, “who I know keeled over day before yesterday, tried everything to get that stuff in from Africa. And I can tell you that the original drug is off the chain. Only problem is that it is addictive and will kill you if you don’t have this other ingredient that you take when you taking it.”

  Denzelle closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank You, Jesus.”

  It was always a blessing to have what you knew in your heart confirmed. He needed to learn to hear God’s voice better. The Lord had told him that the reason those folks in Mozambique were okay was that they had something to offset the pure effects of the drug. Denzelle was beginning to fear that he was being overly imaginative when he hadn’t been able to get any real confirmation on this suspicion about WP21. He had been praying to know whether or not he was right about this. And God had just answered his prayer.

  “How’d you know that, preacher?”

  “I just knew,” Denzelle told Cleotis. “I just knew there was more to how that old man, Uncle Lee Lee was taking that stuff than what I could see. He was healthy, I mean…”

  “I know what you saying,” Cleotis answered. “I took a few trips to Mozambique to help with getting WP21 into the States. And I took some… whew-eee-whew…”

  Cleotis stopped and looked sheepish. He had to remember they were in mixed company.

  “That’s all right, son,” Queen Esther said. “We are all in the know about the extra-special ‘powers’ of Watermelon Powder 21.”

  Now, Johnnie and Essie were cracking up and slapping palms, saying, “I heard that,” like Saphronia and Precious had been doing. They stopped when Eddie and Theophilus glanced over at them and frowned.

  Johnnie sucked on her sapphire-and-gold tooth. She said, “You ain’t been elected bishop yet, Eddie Lee Tate.”

  Eddie cut his eyes at his wife, who licked that tooth and wrote an invisible score in the air. She knew how much he hated folks knowing his middle name.

  “Well,” Cleotis continued, hoping that all Rev. Tate did was cut his eyes. That was one big, mean, and yellow black man. And he for one did not want to even witness an altercation with him.

  “After having my fun, that stuff wore off, and I was so sick and stiff…” Cleotis blushed when he saw the women laughing. “Y’all stop. It was my fingers, okay!”

  “Sorry,” was all Saphronia said before falling out with laughter again, then straightened up when her husband gave her a “Behave” look. He was very quiet and preferred to stay in the background, doing all of those quiet and necessary tasks that were essential to making things work for his church and in his home.

  Eddie wouldn’t have made it if this Rev. James had not been so efficient with getting equipment, making sure they had supplies and lunch, and helping with the van that took people to and from the mall. A lot of people outside of Atlanta didn’t know Rev. James. But he was a powerful and invaluable man of God to those who did. He was also very handsome and sweet, and absolutely adored Dr. Saphronia Anne McComb James and their two proper daughters.

  “As I was trying to say,” Cleotis went on, “after the mess wore off, I was messed up bad. But I noticed that Uncle Lee Lee and his people were fine. I had spent the night on their farm, and that next morning—”

  “They were drinking this tea with breakfast,” Denzelle said.

  “Yep. And they didn’t offer me any, either—which I thought strange because they are very nice and generous people. But they didn’t give me a whiff of that tea.”

  “So they are not just taking that stuff and getting hooked and strung out,” Denzelle was saying. “They are just fine. But when they got it over here, it was a different story.”

  “Plus, I bet this Uncle Lee Lee didn’t trust Rucker as far as he could straighten out his fingers after the drug wore off,” Eddie said.

  “And gave the bishop just enough to make some money,” Theophilus added. “But that man was not about to let Rucker take him for a ride and then take all of his money. I bet that old man is making a killing in his own town selling WP21.”

  “He is,” Murcheson said. “That old man is African—Old World African to the tenth power. He was not about to give up all of his trade secrets to a New World negro like Rucker Hemphill. And especially one who was greedy and didn’t have sense enough to hide it. I bet that fool’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree the first time he even got wind of that drug.”

  “So who is making the counterfeit drug and how did it get past the Triennial Conference to become a bona fide street drug?” Denzelle interjected, now in need of the information that would justify his request to grant them all immunity.

  “Those two white boys, Harold and Horace Dinkle, from western North Carolina are the suppliers,” Cleotis told them. “They are brothers, and they are working hard to mass-produce the drug. That Rico Sneed and his friend, Kordell Bivens, got ahold of a small batch of that stuff. They are the ones who actually gave it to the Dinkle brothers, to find out if they could reproduce it for them.

  “But they are stupid and gave the instructions to the Dinkle brothers without even making a copy for themselves. Those white boys figured out the good part of the drug and then altered it, so that it would get black folk all strung out quick. And then they refused to give Rico and Kordell the formula back. Told them to let some professionals take care of this.”

  “Well, they ain’t the best pros in the game when it comes to this stuff,” Denzelle said. “I know all about Harold and Horace, and all that they’ve been into over the past few years. They have been busy trying to make a name for themselves on the drug cartel scene in the southeast.

  “They started out with high-quality moonshine and weed farms. But they have been getting stronger and stronger ties to some lower-level mob people, and that is what has us worried. We know that if they get mob backing, they will have that drug all over our state. And we know those two white boys messed up that formula on purpose.”

  Denzelle frowned and hit the table.

  “What’s wrong, son?” Joseph inquired, concerned. Denzelle had been cool and in control most of the morning—had hardly ruffled a feather until now.

  “I cannot charge Rico and Kordell.”

  “Why not?” Joseph asked. “Didn’t they go to the Dimwits and gave them the formula?”

  “The Dinkles,” Denzelle said with a chuckle. “Rico and Kordell had only a tiny batch made from natural and legal ingredients. They gave some of it to a few of their boys, took some themselves, and then gave the rest of the ingredients to Harold and Horace. They never sold or solicited for anything and, whether we like it or not, have successfully circumvented the law.”

  Denzelle just shook his head. He had never liked Rico Sneed and Kordell Bivens. They were always walking around perpetrating as if they were some upstanding brothers. But they were nothing more than jive-tailed punks. And they were always in the mix with some mess. Strife, divisiveness, deceit, and chaos followed those two brothers all over the place. Wherever those two went, and whomever they encountered, there would come a time when they would do something to make those people mad enough to never want to see them again. They were like some serial killers—no stopping sense.

>   Obadiah always said that you could tell a lot about a brother if you took the time to watch him play some street basketball with a bunch of the fellas. If a negro talked trash and was mean and aggressive on court, you could bet some money he’d do the same thing off court. Denzelle had watched Rico play ball at the Y. He talked trash, cussed folk out, and pushed and elbowed other players as if his life depended on it.

  A telephone rang but this time it didn’t belong to Denzelle. Grady Grey pulled a mobile out of his man-bag and walked away from everybody. After a few minutes he came back with a grave expression on his face.

  “Another one of y’all’s bishops just died in the same way that Larsen Giles did.”

  “Do you remember the name of the bishop?” Murcheson asked with a heavy sigh.

  “Bishop Josiah Samuels,” Grady told him.

  Percy Jennings just shook his head. He should have known that Josiah, who was a big ho’ and too old to still be ho’ing around, would want some of that WP21. It troubled his soul that two of his bishops had died under some very awful circumstances, and were involved with activities that put their eternal souls in jeopardy. Folks needed to quit playing around and toying with Hell like that. It was as if these people thought that they would die and then discover that somebody had conveniently slipped “Get Out of Hell Free” cards in their caskets. He hoped that both men had repented and rededicated their lives to Christ before they took their last breaths.

  The room was silent. Nobody knew what to say. What had started out as just some generic “boiling negro mess,” as Queen Esther would say, was turning into something that was far more sinister than some preachers running off and acting the fool at a conference.

  Murcheson James stood up and said, “We need to pray.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  You’d think with a campus of this size, I’d be able to find a decent parking space,” Theophilus grumbled as he drove down the main entrance road and off the campus, searched for parking on a side road, turned back around, and went right back the way he’d just come, fussing and sputtering the entire time.

  “There are some spaces over there in the grass,” Essie told him for the third time since they had come on campus.

  If he hadn’t been driving, Theophilus would have closed his eyes and grumbled, “Lord, give me strength.” He didn’t want to park in the grass.

  “Theophilus, bear right to that parking space right next to the athletic building,” Essie told him, glad that this space had become available so that she didn’t have to beat her husband. She knew he was nervous and worried. But as she had told him before they left the hotel, and would certainly be more than willing to tell him again, this wasn’t even their battle, it was the Lord’s.

  God had revealed it quite clearly to Essie, when she was up this morning praying, that He was working behind the scenes to set everything right. And that all of this had to unfold for them to finally understand how dangerous it was to the spiritual life of the church that they continued to allow so many corrupt preachers to have influence and presence in the denomination. This was a time of cleansing and purging—that was why it was so hard and painful. Being purified by fire was never an easy or pleasurable process—wasn’t supposed to be.

  Theophilus eased into the parking space, put the car in park, and unhooked his seat belt. He was close to fifty, and still a fine, muscular hunk of chocolate. In fact, some folk thought that the good Reverend Simmons had gotten better-looking with that silver sprinkled around the edges of his hair and mustache.

  “Baby, wait,” Essie said, and then reached into her purse for her bottle of oil. “We are not going up in that place without being covered in Jesus’ name.”

  She poured a drop on her fingertip and touched the crown of her husband’s head before she touched her own head. She said, “Father, we are going to a pre-election service. But you know that we are really walking up into the thick of a spiritual battle that has been going on for too many years. Cover us with the blood of Jesus. Dispatch our angels to prepare the way for us. Anoint us with the Holy Ghost, and shine a lamplight on our feet, so that we will walk through this center by Your guidance, grace, favor, and mercy.

  “We cancel out, in Jesus’ name, all assignments of the enemy against us, against Eddie Tate, against the campaign team, and against our bid for an Episcopal seat. We bind up the Devil and all of his minions in Jesus’ name. And we ask that You give my baby here the word from You that You want him to speak this morning. Bless Your holy name, precious Lord, in Jesus’ name. Give us victory in Christ Jesus, amen.”

  “Amen,” Theophilus said, and took his wife’s face in his hands. He kissed her lips and then kissed her again—deeply. That kiss reminded him of the time he’d kissed Essie the night they had dinner at Mable’s Kitchen after leaving the Annual Conference when he pastored Greater Hope Gospel United Church in Memphis.

  “I love you so much, Essie,” he whispered in between kisses.

  “I love you, too, Theophilus.”

  “Yes you do, woman,” he said with a mannish grin that made her blush. Theophilus had been making his wife blush throughout their entire marriage, and it never failed to make him hot when she did that.

  “Hmmm, baby, you think I need to get me some WP21 and tell them they are going to have to take a rain check on my sermon?”

  “You don’t need no WP21, Theophilus Simmons,” Essie responded, and then rubbed her hand on his leg.

  “Nahhhh,” he said, and tweaked her ear. “I don’t need that stuff. What you got, girl, works better than any watermelon powder could ever hope to do.”

  “You are so mannish and nasty, boy.”

  “You like it.”

  “I sho do… lawd knows I do.”

  “Come on, you fast little country girl. Let’s find out where everybody else is and get this show on the road.”

  “You think anybody is going to get arrested today?” Essie asked him, eyes lighting up like one of the kids’.

  “Nope. I think they are going to let them think a bust is going down today, and tomorrow they are coming in and going for the jugular. Still too much info out, and I know that Denzelle wants to see all of the players before he plays his hand. That boy didn’t train under Eddie for nothing.”

  They walked in through the back entrance and found everybody standing there, robes hanging over their arms, waiting on them.

  “What took you so long?” Thayline asked.

  “Parking,” Theophilus told her. “I can’t believe that a school this big would not have a parking plan for their guests. Everywhere I looked, there was a sign that I needed a special parking sticker. You’d think that as much as we are paying Eva T. to host this event, they would have mailed out parking stickers to conference guests.”

  “What school did you attend, son?” Murcheson James asked him. He was an alumnus of both Rust College in Mississippi and Eva T. He wondered why Theophilus was so upset with the run-of-the-mill black college politics.

  “Blackwell College.”

  “And did they do anything special for their guests with cars, even after receiving a hefty check for hosting a much-anticipated event?”

  Theophilus didn’t say a word, just started putting on his robe.

  “Point made,” was all Murcheson said. “Look, we need to get in the lineup. There are 123 preachers in this line, and I am going to use my bishop’s stripes to get us closer to the front. I am not about to stand in line behind a bunch of slow-walking black people who will stop and chitchat with their friends along the way just to make sure that folks see them in this processional.”

  Eddie, Theophilus, and Percy followed Murcheson to the section of the gymnasium where the preachers were assembled to march in. Obadiah and Denzelle followed the rest of the folk to the regular seats, with their robes still hanging on their arms.

  “Put your robes on,” Eddie told them. “If we have to walk in that line with all of those negroes, you are walking in that line with all of those negroes.” />
  “Man!” Obadiah groaned and started putting on his robe.

  Denzelle checked his guns on both holsters under his arm and then put his robe on.

  “You packing a lot of heat for a church service, Pastor,” Eddie said.

  “If you know what I knew, you’d have this much heat, too, Rev. Tate.”

  Eddie unzipped his robe and revealed some heat strapped to his shoulder. He said, “I do know a bit of what you know, son, and came prepared.”

  “What about Jesus and a Bible?” Queen Esther told them. She didn’t have any problems with folks being strapped. But this was a bit much.

  “Got that, too, Miss Queen Esther,” Denzelle said, and pulled his Bible out of that black briefcase.

  “Come on,” Percy told them, “we need to get going, so we can get this show on the road.”

  There were so many preachers who had jockeyed their way into that coveted Triennial Conference pre-election day processional line, Percy had decided that it would be best if the choir simply took its places before the service started. They hurried over to where the other preachers were standing and waiting for the senior bishop, Percy Jennings, to take his place so they could get started.

  As Percy and his entourage made their way to the front of the line, neither Eddie nor Theophilus missed the daggers shooting out of some folk’s eyes.

  “Aren’t we supposed to be in church?” Eddie whispered.

  “I know. So much hate. Where is the love?” Theophilus answered, shaking his head in disgust. When had they come to a point where the pomp and circumstance of being a preacher in a conference lineup, and religious posturing, had become more important than the Kingdom of God?

  “Check it out,” Denzelle whispered to Obadiah, as his eyes wandered appreciatively over one of the few new women preachers in the line. “Who is that and can I go and shake her daddy’s hand?”

  Obadiah took a quick look at Rev. Nadine Quarles. She was fine—tall, coffee-with-cream brown, thick brown shoulder-length hair, big full lips, and, based on the contours of her clerical robe, a nice round backside. The only problem with the good Rev. Quarles was that nasty attitude. It was so obvious it practically jumped out at him. The girl was arrogant and stuck up. He tapped his mentor on the shoulder, now curious about this heifer.