“How’s that going to help?”
“If you can get him to open the envelope first, he’ll swallow that knife before he dares to cut you open.” She searched my face again.
“Really,” she said. “Trust me.”
Chapter 6
I spun my Jeep to turn into the parking lot of the Velvets for Gents nightclub to search for Bingo and Leroy.
A late afternoon thundershower had passed through a few hours earlier, cleansing the air of dust and humidity. The uneven pavement held puddles that gleamed beneath the streetlights.
I cruised slowly, looking for Bingo’s Chevette. The throb of dance music reached me from the Velvets for Gents. It was the bar to visit if you were college-aged and armed with knife or gun. It was also the place not to enter if you were over thirty, had a short haircut, and preferred not to learn the sensation of being stabbed or shot. I really hoped Bingo and Leroy would be in his car as Angel had promised.
I didn’t bother locking the Jeep; I often simply put my keys under the floor mat. Locking it was unnecessary, for I never left anything of value inside. When the top was up, if someone wanted to unlock the door, all they’d have to do is slash the upper canvas or the plastic windows with a knife. And this was the place that most passersby would be suitably prepared to do so.
Knife. I thought of Angel’s warning about Bingo.
I wanted to step back inside the Jeep and drive away. But the hook had been set the moment Glennifer and Elaine told me about a little girl who walked into their shop with a baby sister riding her hip, and a seventeenth-century painting stolen the night Agnes Larrabee died. Much as that had hooked me, I still might have been able to wriggle free, but then I’d met Angel and watched her fight for her baby sister. I was not going to quit on this.
So I began to search among the cars for a jacked-up red Chevette with mag wheels and black-tinted windows. I found it within a minute, in a dark corner of the lot beneath a streetlight with a broken bulb. Heavy metal music seeped out of the Chevette. As did cigarette smoke.
I knocked on the window, amused at the vanity of youth. A Chevette was all he’d been able to afford, but by adding the mags and tinted windows, it was obvious he was determined to show the world that he was cool.
The window cracked slightly. More smoke rose to my nostrils. The music went silent, and a beam from a powerful flashlight inside blinded me.
“I need to speak to Bingo,” I said, stepping aside from the beam.
“Ain’t seen you before.” The beam followed my face and remained directly in my eyes. “Who sent you and what are you buying?”
“Put the flashlight away,” I said, my irritation now slightly stronger than my considerable anxiety.
“You buying?” The beam stayed on my face. I refused to put up my hands to shield myself. “Show me the money and I’ll show you what you want.”
A giggle came from the other side of the Chevette. “ ‘Show me the money.’ Man, can’t you think of anything better?”
“Leroy, this dude’s so old he’ll think that was hip.”
“Put the flashlight away,” I said. “I want to talk to Bingo.”
He responded with a vernacular reply that, boiled down to more polite language, instructed me to leave. The window rolled up again. The beam shut off. The music resumed.
I waited until the spots left my eyes. I stepped forward and knocked on the window again.
Nothing. Not even a flashlight beam back on my face. My irritation grew to an unreasonable anger.
I walked back to my Jeep. I drove it, headlights off, until it was directly behind the jacked-up Chevette. I shut the motor off and turned on my headlights. I clicked them to high beam so the light shone directly into the Chevette. I saw two silhouettes in motion in the front seat, turning to look back.
I stepped out of the Jeep again. I walked to the back of the Chevette, leaned on the bumper, and began to rock it hard, remembering the ploy Angel used when she wanted to pull Bingo out onto the street from Camellia’s house.
As I’d guessed, the doors were locked. Which meant the car alarm had been set.
Within seconds the alarm began to scream shrilly into the night. An alarm that would attract any police nearby. To a car that undoubtedly held stolen electronics in the backseat or trunk.
I returned to my Jeep, leaned against the fender, and watched and waited.
The doors on each side opened. Standing squarely in the high beams of my headlights, the kid on the driver’s side cursed at me as he frantically put a key in the driver’s side lock and turned it to shut off the alarm. If he was Bingo, he was, as Angel had promised, a good six inches shorter than I was. He wore a loose-fitting sweatshirt, and his shaggy blond hair brushed against his shoulders. Light bounced off his shiny face.
The passenger was dressed the same, but he was larger, broader, and much more mellow. Leroy. The skin of his hands and neck and face was black and seemed to absorb the headlights. He simply leaned against the passenger side and waited and watched, arm half raised to give his eyes some shade from the headlights.
When the alarm stopped shrieking, Bingo pulled out a switchblade.
He advanced upon me, squinting against my headlights.
**
Retha faced bright light, too.
When she heard the clicking of the lock outside the shed, she prayed hard that it was Junior, not Elder Mason again. Or worse, Shepherd Isaiah. Or worst of all, Shepherd Isaiah with Elder Jeremiah.
Retha held her breath as the door opened, lifting a hand streaked with dried blood to shield her eyes against the glare of
a flashlight aimed directly into her face.
“What’s this Elder Mason said about you driving away this morning?” Junior had learned to always refer to his father as Elder Mason, just so he wouldn’t slip up in front of him. Junior’s voice had a thick drawl. No beer on his breath like his other bass-fishing friends. That was one good thing about Junior. He never sinned by drinking beer. “He ain’t happy, I can tell you that,” he said.
“How’s Billy Lee?” Retha shifted to get the light out of her eyes. “How is he?”
“Fine as far as I know. Didn’t hear nothing from his bedroom. He must be sleeping.”
“Air-conditioning on?” Retha found it hard to speak, her mouth was so dry.
“Yeah. It’s always on when Elder Mason’s by himself in there. Tell me about this driving you did. What got into your head, trying to leave without signing out? Didn’t you know the gates are under video all the time?”
“I want to see Billy Lee.” Retha struggled from a sitting position onto her knees. She tried to stand. Junior pushed her down. Not roughly, but firmly.
“Elder Mason just sent me out to give you a whipping. Not to let you out. I told you, he’s some kind of mad.” Junior set the flashlight on the ground, shining up. He was twenty. The light showed his slight figure, his dirty blue jeans and T-shirt, the pitiful red mustache, his shaggy red hair. Retha could smell the fish bait on his fingers.
“Whip me fast then,” Retha said. “I got to be with Billy Lee. Ain’t you worried about him being as sick as he is?”
“Elder Mason says he’s sick ’cause you have the devil in you.”
“I don’t, Junior. I pray to Jesus all the time. Now whip me fast and let me have Billy Lee.”
“I ain’t gonna whip you. You know I can’t stomach that. But if Elder Mason asks, tell him I did. I just brought you something to eat. But don’t tell him that.”
“I need to hold Billy Lee.”
“Not just yet. Elder Mason’s got to give us the say-so.”
Retha bowed her head. “Junior, can’t you and me live our own lives? Ain’t that somewheres in the Bible?”
“So’s honor your father and mother that your lives may be long in the land that the Lord gives you. Elder Mason’s still my Daddy and a widower and—”
“And when he says jump, you say ‘how high’ and ‘when do you want me to land.’ Our boy’
s sick and we need to get him to a doctor.”
“Is that where you was headed today?”
Retha didn’t answer.
“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear nothing about a doctor. Praying will bring about the healing. We just need stronger faith.”
“I want to run away from the Glory Church, Junior. I swear
I do. Take me somewhere else. Please.”
Junior crouched down. Fear lit his eyes. “Don’t say that. Ever. If Shepherd Isaiah hears it . . .”
Retha held back a sob. From conversations she’d overheard between Shepherd Isaiah and Elder Mason, she knew too much about the Chosen of the church. Far too much. “I just want Billy Lee to be fine. He’s our only boy and he needs more than prayer.”
“And don’t let Elder Mason hear you say that either!” Junior’s voice was a harsh, terrified whisper. “He can’t have his authority questioned by the ones that live under his own roof.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t even want to think of what kind of example he’d make of us in front of all the others. . . .”
Junior stopped. He shoved a sandwich at Retha. “Now eat what I brought.”
Retha was too thirsty to think of food. “I want to hold Billy Lee.”
“I’ll tell Elder Mason I whipped you good and you begged forgiveness. Then maybe he’ll let you come in.”
“I want to hold Billy Lee. Help me take him to a doctor.”
“What if we ask Shepherd Isaiah for a Glory Session? That’ll drive away the devil. You’ll see.”
“No Glory Session. It didn’t work for the others.”
“Because they didn’t believe enough.”
“Junior, no Glory Session. I couldn’t bear it.”
Junior stood quickly. He stopped in the doorway. “I’ll get back as soon as I can. Remember, if Elder Mason asks, you tell him I whipped you good.”
“Junior!” But she spoke to a closing door.
In the dark, the mosquitoes continued to descend on her face and ears and the bare skin of her arms.
Chapter 7
A mile to the south on Queen Street, tourists dined in restaurants where a slab of fish that would fit on my palm might cost them twenty-five bucks. Here, a crack addict might kill to steal anything of the same value. As Bingo moved toward me, the throbbing of the music floated through the parking lot, like a movie score to a fight scene.
But I didn’t want the fight.
Holding his knife in front of him in his right hand, Bingo wanted to play it tough, wanted to play it like a cat leisurely moving in on a cornered mouse. What ruined his act were my headlights. He had to keep his left hand, palm out, in front of his face to shield his eyes.
“Car alarm was a stupid move, man,” he said. “It’s slice-and-dice time.”
“Get him good,” Leroy said.
I was glad that Leroy wasn’t smart enough to use the flashlight to blind me as Bingo advanced. If he had been, I would have lost what advantage I had with the headlights in Bingo’s eyes. But the flashlight was still in the Chevette. I held my
position.
“This is for you,” I told Bingo. From my back pocket, I threw the envelope from Angel down at his feet.
He was far too streetwise to let it distract him. He continued to advance. “I don’t know what your game was, but the new one
is called bleed-until-you-die.”
I saw more of his face as his movement brought him toward me. Lumpy, with his lips forming a tight sneer. He was barely old enough to have a driver’s license. Young enough, then, to have delusions of immortality. Especially when he had a knife and I didn’t. “Open it,” I said. “It’s from Grammie Zora.”
Angel had been right about everything else. But her talisman didn’t work. Bingo didn’t even flinch at hearing Grammie Zora’s name. He moved closer, until the gap between us was less than three steps. He spit. “Grammie Zora don’t need yuppie messengers like you.”
Really, Angel’s words echoed in my mind, trust me. She’d find this funny.
Despite the heat, I’d worn a leather jacket. I pulled it off. Slowly, because Bingo was moving slowly. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to see how badly I’d scare. I held the elbow of each sleeve in each hand and let the body of the jacket hang loose in front of my legs.
Attackers rarely expect anything but fear from their intended victims. So I stepped toward Bingo, ready if he slashed at me to pull the sleeves apart hard and quickly. It would bring the jacket up to tangle his knife hand. Once wrapped in leather, the blade would do no damage. He’d have to let go, but if he didn’t, he’d be an easy target for a knee to his groin.
At my move toward him, Bingo hesitated, moved back slightly.
That told me enough. He’d be willing to listen, but I needed to get his attention fast.
“Get Leroy to open the envelope,” I said. “He’s got a flashlight. Or he can use my headlights. He’ll see what’s inside. Then we don’t have to take this any further.”
I hadn’t opened the envelope. In retrospect, that was stupid. But Angel had an air of knowing exactly what she was doing. I really believed her—that once Bingo read her note, he’d talk.
“You undercover?” Bingo’s voice was suddenly an octave higher. “Because all the stuff in that car is ours. We barter, man. Pick stuff up at garage sales, bring it here. Sometimes people buy. Sometimes people sell. We’re like a pawnshop on wheels. That’s all, man.”
“Leroy,” I said with a tired voice, hiding the adrenaline that flowed in me, “just grab the envelope before your friend gets hurt.”
Bingo didn’t call him off. Leroy slouched forward. The features of his face were surprisingly delicate. Big as he was, I would have been surprised if he was any older than fourteen.
As he neared, Bingo kicked him the envelope without taking his eyes off me.
Leroy retreated to the passenger side of the car again. He opened the envelope slowly, pulled out a note and read it. Then he looked inside the envelope again.
“Drop the knife,” he said in a high, urgent voice. “Tell him whatever he wants!”
“I ain’t dropping this knife. I’m gonna shred him,” Bingo said. Not much bluster left in his voice.
“That was in her note.” Leroy was obviously agitated. “Grammie Zora says tell him whatever he asks. Or else.”
“Else what?” Bingo tried to make it a snarl.
Standing on the other side of the Chevette, Leroy dug into the envelope and pulled out the contents. He held his fingers high for Bingo to see. Three sewing needles tied together with black thread.
“You know what this is,” Leroy said. “Grammie Zora’s note says she’ll hex you if you don’t obey.”
Bingo had obviously grown up in Leroy’s neighborhood. He knew what the needles were. A suffering root.
Just like I now knew Grammie Zora was a voodoo doctor.
Bingo dropped the switchblade at his feet.
**
Some of the descendants of the early slaves from Africa are known as the Gullah. They have their own dialect and are known by tourists primarily for the basket-weaving skills that women have passed down from generation to generation.
In the early 1920s, about ten miles upstream from Charleston on the Cooper River, there was a small collection of houses where many of the Gullah lived, as they still do today, although the tin-roofed cabins and leaning outhouse have long since been replaced.
Among those people was a blacksmith named Jethro Hammer. Because of his trade, he was a well-muscled man. He was also handsome and considerate, and popular among the women. He was married, however, and deeply in love with his wife, Mae. They were childless, and Mae worried that this factor would eventually drive Jethro away. That, combined with the attention given to him by other women, was enough to fuel an unfounded jealousy that led to nothing short of a Shakespearean tragedy.
Mae went to a voodoo doctor and had her husband hexed. The voodoo doctor used a suffering root—three brand-new sewing needles tie
d together with black thread. In Mae’s presence, he empowered the suffering root with a ceremony in a graveyard just after midnight on a full moon. The next morning, Mae hid the three needles in her husband’s front pocket and sent him to work with a lunch of ham with mustard on homemade bread.
Before noon arrived, however, Mae was overcome with remorse. She rushed to Jethro where he stood at his anvil with tongs, hammering red-hot iron into shape. She begged him to go for a walk along the river, where she confessed that she’d placed
a curse upon him that would certainly bring him death before the next full moon.
She showed him the suffering root that she’d hidden upon him, and repeated again and again, “I’ve killed you, I’ve killed you.”
He was just as convinced as she was that his death was certain.
At that point, Mae told Jethro that she never wanted to be separated from him. She begged for him to kill her, because that was the only way they could remain together. She told him she would wait for him by the river’s edge on the other side of death, where they would live together forever with no fear or pain or poverty.
Jethro later told the judge that he believed he was going to die anyway, and he didn’t want his beloved Mae left alone in the world. So with one big, powerful arm, he held her gently and with his other hand pinched her nostrils tightly. He was holding her lifeless body, rocking back and forth and weeping, when the police came to arrest him.
In jail, he patiently waited for the hex to bring him the death that would take him to her. He waited until the next full moon, fully expecting to die any day.
The hex itself failed. It was the hangman’s noose that finally sent him beyond, three months later.
**
“That’s all you want? How to find the white-haired dude? The man Grammie Zora had me get for her? I can tell you that easy. She showed me his picture and—”
“She had a photo of him?”
Bingo nodded. He sat on the hood of his car, Leroy beside him. “Black-and-white head-and-shoulders picture. Like it had been taken with a zoom lens. She took it out of an envelope. I remembered that because I saw the name on the envelope.”
Crown of Thorns (Nick Barrett Charleston series) Page 6
