More Church Folk

by Michele Andrea Bowen

  Rico, who couldn’t shoot his way out of a wet paper bag, aimed the gun at Denzelle and then fell to the floor screaming, the leather on the middle of his left shoe hanging open and oozing blood.

  “Help me, lawd. My toes are shot off.”

  Now he calls on the Lord, Greg Williams thought to himself, and then said, “Shut up, punk. Denzelle didn’t shoot your toes off.”

  “Uhhh… yes he did,” Kordell told him, getting sick to his stomach when he saw the second and third toes from Rico’s left foot lying twelve inches away from his body in a pool of blood.

  Greg looked at the toes and started laughing. “Daggone it, Flowers. I didn’t know you could shoot like that.” He gave Denzelle five and then inspected Rico’s foot. “Man! That’s a pretty shot. Looks like you took those toes off with a scalpel.”

  “Ahhhhhh!!!! My foot. Laaaawwwdddd, I’m dying… Jesus…”

  “Shut up!” Denzelle snapped and tapped Rico on the head with his gun.

  “You just tried to kill me.”

  “You pulled a gun on a federal agent in the middle of an investigation for drug dealing, and you are a suspect,” Denzelle told him. “Be thankful that I didn’t pump your raggedy behind full of holes. ’Cause trust me—that really would have made my day.”

  Rico shut up and lay flat on the floor as if he was losing consciousness.

  Greg nudged that shot-up foot with his shoe and laughed when Rico started screaming like a woman.

  “I want you, and this fool standing here crying like he is some little girl, to tell me everything you know about the Dinkles.”

  Kordell wiped at his eyes with both hands, and tried to “man up.” He was glad that he had kept it together enough not to mess in his pants.

  “What about the money I owe them?” Rico sniffled. “They gone kill me.”

  “No they’re not. You tell me what I want to know and you’ll never have to worry about those jokers again,” Greg said.

  “What’s the catch?”

  Greg wasn’t sure what the catch was at this point but Denzelle did.

  “I want you to tithe all of what you and How the Grinch Stole Christmas! made from selling WP21, back to my Uncle Russell’s church, Fayetteville Street Gospel United Church,” Denzelle said. “And I want that money tomorrow in cash. Or this deal is off.”

  “But it is supposed to be only ten percent,” Kordell said, pissed that Denzelle had called him the Grinch. He knew people whispered behind his back that he had a mouth like the Dr. Seuss Grinch.

  “Ten percent is only the bare minimum cover charge. You can give all of that money back, or you can go talk to the Dinkle brothers on your own.”

  Greg was cracking up, watching Kordell mentally counting up all of that money he had to put back into his community.

  “Okay,” Kordell spat out. “But you know that’s messed up, Denzelle, man.”

  “What’s messed up is you being made into some fertilizer for one of Harold Dinkle’s weed gardens. Now that’s messed up. Look at it this way, bro-man. You and your friend Toe Jam here can really put Malachi 3:10–11 to work in your lives.”

  Kordell looked dumbfounded. It was clear that he didn’t know what that scripture said.

  “Let me help you out,” Denzelle said. “This is the scripture read on every Sunday morning during offering, and it says, ‘Bring all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be food in My house, and try Me now in this,’ says the Lord of hosts, ‘If I will not open for you the windows of heaven and pour out for you such blessing that there will not be room enough to receive it. And I will rebuke the devourer for your sakes, so that he will not destroy the fruit of your ground…’”

  Gregory Williams studied Rico’s two toes lying on the floor. They almost looked fake—like some rubber toes someone had made, and then thrown on the floor to get a rise out of somebody.

  “Deal, Rico?” Denzelle asked him.

  Rico reached out his hand and whispered, “Deal,” before he fainted, and left it in Kordell’s hands to tell Denzelle and Greg everything about the operation. Once they had the information they needed, Greg doctored up the scene of the crime to make it look as if Rico had accidentally shot his own self by the time the ambulance arrived.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Twenty-three years ago they had all gathered outside the gymnasium at Virginia Union University to go in and set things right at the Triennial Conference. On that day in Richmond, Virginia, this group had not even been sure they would have a church once they left that building. Theophilus had had to face what he believed at the time to be the scariest moment in his career. He had been given the task of exposing corruption, at the risk of losing all that he had worked so hard to build as a minister. But Theophilus had not been consecrated to serve just the Gospel United Church—he had been called to serve the Lord and build His church. This denomination was merely the vehicle that God used to work through Theophilus on behalf of building the Kingdom of God on Earth. And God couldn’t work with a mess.

  More than two decades later, he and Eddie Tate had become bold for Christ in a way they could never have imagined back then. What a journey it had been, and what a joy to have traveled this road with the lamplight of the Lord at their feet. Theophilus always said that folks didn’t know what they were missing, trying to live without Jesus as Lord of their lives.

  He and Eddie looked at their two protégés, Obadiah Quincey and Denzelle Flowers. Those two reminded them so much of what they had been like back in the day when they were young and full of themselves. Good young preachers, with the promise of being top-notch pastors. Now he knew what it must have felt like to Murcheson and Percy to take Eddie and himself under their wings.

  Eddie was hollering with laughter listening to Denzelle relay the events of the previous night. Several arrests had been made but they had spared the folk who had helped them get WP21 off of the street. Rico Sneed was mending nicely, even though the trauma team at Duke University Medical Center had not been able to reattach his toes. Rico would have to go through the rest of his life with three toes on one foot. He’d never be able to wear a slip-on gator or an open-toed sandal ever again. Eddie figured correctly that there would be some very bad blood between Denzelle and this Rico for many years to come. But that was all right—Denzelle was a big boy and could handle it.

  “Show me the part when that joker got shot one more time, man,” Eddie said, bringing a frown from his wife, who said, “Bishop, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” before breaking down in laughter herself.

  “Okay, Rev. Tate,” Denzelle said, more than happy to oblige his request. He snorted out his nostrils like Rico, and then pretended he had been shot and started hollering and calling out “Laaawwwwdddd,” and then broke down in a fit of laughter.

  “See, that is why Toe Jam doesn’t like your behind,” Obadiah said, and then started laughing. He knew that he shouldn’t feel that way. But of all the stupid people in Durham who deserved this, it really was Rico Sneed.

  Obadiah knew the Lord knew he felt that way. He glanced upward and said, “Sorry, Jesus, please forgive me that weakness.”

  “You okay, Obie?” Lena asked him.

  “Yeah, sweetie. Just had to do a bit of repenting.”

  Lena kissed him on the cheek and patted his hand. Obadiah was a preacher and pastor down to the bone. It was her calling to keep him covered and protected with prayer.

  Denzelle smiled at his two best friends, and then felt a twinge of sadness tugging at his heart. He wondered if he would ever find a treasure of the same quality as Lena, or Miss Johnnie and Miss Essie.

  Essie hadn’t missed the sadness that had swept across Denzelle’s face. She came over to him and said, “All in God’s perfect timing. He needs you for a few things that you wouldn’t be able to do with a wife or fiancée.”

  Tears welled up in Denzelle’s eyes. He whispered, “Thank you,” as he felt God’s peace and joy pouring all over his heart. Most folk didn’t know how much it could h
urt when a man couldn’t find his true wife. And this was just as true for a player like Denzelle. In fact, it was probably truer for him, since his being a skilled player made all of the good sisters (those with wife credentials) very cautious about getting involved with Denzelle.

  “So, now that we old heads missed all of the best stuff,” Rev. James said, obviously disappointed that he hadn’t been at the shoot-out, “we need to know what we are doing when we roll up in there on those folks. There are still some very ugly loose ends that need to be dealt with. And while WP21 is now permanently off the street, it is still alive and well at this conference. From what Greg Williams has been telling me, there is enough of that stuff floating around the conference to put every man here in the hospital.”

  “We need to get on inside and to our seats,” Percy told them, “because the voting will begin in forty-five minutes.”

  They all hurried in, found their section, and took their seats. This session was light-years ahead of the previous ones, when they had had a full church service, some campaign messages (mini-sermons from the candidates with lots of money to sling around), and an hour-long discussion about how to fill out a ballot that was designed to be read and understood by someone with a fifth-grade education.

  This year they had gone a step beyond where they’d been for the last Triennial Conference, which had been held in St. Louis, Missouri. As the senior bishop, Percy had eliminated the processional and announcement of all bishops and their districts. He contended that everybody in the building had a program with all of that information at his or her fingertips. All campaign booths had to be taken down. And actual voting booths were set up around the entire gymnasium, much as they would have been for a presidential election.

  Percy had hired an independent company outside of the denomination to operate the booths, check in and ID the delegates, monitor the ballots being placed in a lockbox, and tally up the results. Some folks complained about having a team of white boys in blue, gray, and brown suits, white shirts, striped ties, and those shoes with the one-inch soles keeping score on who would become the next bishops at a black church conference. But Percy ignored them because he knew those white boys were efficient, they prided themselves on their accuracy, and they couldn’t care less who won this election as long as they got paid when they gave Percy Jennings the final results.

  Percy, along with Murcheson, who had been elected to serve as the next senior bishop by the entire denomination, took his seat on the raised platform. They glanced around to make sure that all the voting booths were in place. When the head of the accounting firm sent a note that the accountants were ready, Percy walked up to the podium. He raised his hands and everybody stood up.

  “Good morning, Christian friends. I greet you in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. We have come here this morning to conclude our business at this Triennial Conference by electing new bishops…”

  All of a sudden Marcel Brown busted through the back door, dressed as if he were getting ready to audition for Whodini’s newest music video on Black Entertainment Television. He was wearing a chocolate suit with baggy pants with pleats in the front and a short double-breasted coat, along with a light pink shirt and matching tie. Just looking at him made Percy feel like going to get some turntables and a few 33½ albums to scratch while somebody spit out some church rhymes.

  When Marcel knew that all eyes were on him, he smiled and then pimp-walked to the section where his father and their cronies were seated. Eddie Tate rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Jesus, Father, God… help us.”

  Theophilus wondered if that jacket was uncomfortable, because it was cut tight and high. Plus, Marcel knew he was way past the age of someone who should wear a suit like that. But he was in good shape, and actually wore the suit well. The women who loved preachers like Marcel got overly excited and immediately started plotting as to how they were going to get their room keys into Rev. Brown’s hands.

  Once more Percy Jennings tried to open this session so that they could vote in the new bishops, consecrate them that evening, and go home. Percy was sick of this conference and all that had been going on. He was about to pray when Greg Williams walked in wearing the sharpest so-called standard FBI suit Percy had ever laid eyes on. It was a lightweight navy cashmere-and-silk blend, cut as if it had been sewn on his body, dove-gray shirt, and dove-gray silk tie with navy and light blue dots on it. And even more impressive were Greg’s shoes. Lace-up navy Stacy Adamses that were a far cry from those thick-soled white-boy shoes folks were used to seeing on an agent’s feet.

  Marcel, Sonny, and Rucker Hemphill looked very uncomfortable and not at all happy to see Gregory Williams, who had been trying to contact them unsuccessfully for the last two days. Marcel began to wish that he had not let Grady Grey sell him this suit for two hundred dollars. This suit had conveniently “fallen” off a truck carrying a shipload of expensive and very hip menswear coming out of New York. Two hundred dollars was a steal for a suit he knew would have easily sold for a grand at retail prices.

  Greg petitioned Bishop Jennings as respectfully as possible. He hated to come up in here like this. He now understood that most of these folks were decent and genuine church folk. It was unfortunate that a few bad apples made the whole cart appear rotten. Greg just didn’t feel comfortable flashing that badge in here, when he hadn’t set foot in a black church event in years. Plus, his grandmother, who had been a devoted member of St. Peter Gospel United Church in his hometown of Oakland, California, had stayed on him to go to the church of his family until the day she died. Looking around, he saw a whole lot of women who reminded him of his Nanapooh.

  This had been a difficult case because there had been so many twists and turns, and a huge hodgepodge of people involved with the enterprise. There had actually been two separate operations with one set of folk working with both. Rico Sneed, who was recovering nicely, and figuring out how to walk with two toes missing on his left foot, had been brought in on the ground level to design a computer program to log the sales, customers, and movement of the drug. He had then brought in his best friend just to help out and earn some money as if it were a part-time job at Wendy’s.

  When the church-based crooks realized that they were short of the amount of WP21 needed for their growing customer base, Rico took his silly self off and hooked up with the Dinkle brothers. The Dinkles, who had been in the drug business for seven years, couldn’t believe their good fortune when former classmate Rico Sneed brought that stuff to them. They, along with the folks they were now being protected from, decided that Durham could use one more highly addictive substance—especially now that they had doctored it up and increased the addictive and lethal qualities of what had once been a very naturally manufactured substance.

  That was enough on its own. It didn’t even include the hardcore church element of dealers. Rucker Hemphill wasn’t worth a pile of poop. And Ottah Babatunde was just plain mean and hateful. Greg was a top FBI agent, and even he was intimidated by this Bishop Babatunde. It had been a long time since he met a man as dangerous, evil, and scary as Ottah was. The only decent criminal among them had been Cleotis Clayton, who had bailed out and left town as soon as he gave Denzelle the information needed to get them to this point on election day.

  The main arrests had been made. But there was no way they were going to sit back and let Rucker Hemphill and Ottah Babatunde waltz out of Durham just like that. Two of the church’s bishops were dead and one was in the hospital still trying to straighten himself out—literally.

  Greg looked up at the podium, praying that the bishop would oblige his silent request and come to the edge of the platform. He had never been much of a praying man but the last thing he wanted to be forced to do was flash that badge and take over this meeting. Denzelle had filled him in on who was who, and Greg agreed with his subordinate agent’s assertion that Rev. Eddie Tate needed to be elected bishop today as soon as possible. And here he was slowing everything down, fooling with those clowns sitting
over to his left looking as if they should have been running the pimp palace.

  Percy was as eager to get this show on the road as the next guy. But it couldn’t be done until the business that had brought Agent Williams to his doorstep had been taken care of. Arrests being made at a Triennial Conference. As bad as the 1963 Triennial Conference brothel fiasco had been, it had never gone this far.

  “Bishop,” Greg said, “we need to do this now.”

  Percy nodded and waved for everybody to sit down. Most of the folks were confused. They had come to vote in new bishops, and now the bishop was slowing things down. It was so difficult to come to a Triennial Conference and elect the new bishops in a timely manner.

  It had taken Rucker Hemphill a few minutes to place that brother. But as soon as he did, the bishop decided that it was time to take a bathroom break at the airport. He eased up and tried to make his way through those tight seats without bringing too much attention to himself.

  Ottah Babatunde was African royalty. He didn’t slink out for anybody—especially some American infidels whose ancestors had been too dumb to avoid getting caught by some white men. Just the thought made him want to spit and curse everybody in this room—not cuss out—curse.

  The last time Theophilus and Eddie, along with their band of cohorts, had seen this kind of action at a church event, they had been right up in the thick of it. In fact, they had been solely responsible for getting information, finding the bad guys, and fighting it out until they won. This time they were all comfortably seated, kind of wishing for some popcorn, while they watched the show.

  Denzelle Flowers was the only one in the group who couldn’t remain seated while this played out. As soon as he saw Bishop Babatunde reach up under that fancy purple Nigerian robe, Denzelle reached inside his coat and hurried over to that side of the room. Several other FBI agents, sitting in the audience in church clothes, got up, too, when two of Babatunde’s henchmen got up to help their bishop.