Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Don’t talk, not until a doctor examines you.” Jonathan pulled the spread off the bed and covered her. She was shaking now. “An ambulance is on the way, so are the police.”

  “Fruit,” Cynthia croaked in a whisper. “He smelled like fruit.”

  Cynthia lay strapped to a gurney watching a sea of people stream by. She was in the hallway outside her door. Her room had become a crime scene and already two cops were collecting evidence. When she saw Detective Steve Bradley coming down the hall she closed her eyes and groaned.

  “What the . . . I don’t believe it!”

  Cynthia opened her eyes.

  “You’re my 10-5? Are you crazy, Cynthia? Are you plain out of your head crazy? Because if you’re here doing what I think you’re doing, then you are certifiable.”

  “Ease up detective. It’s hard for her to talk. I don’t know what kind of trouble she’s gotten into in the past, but since she’s been here I can vouch for her.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Pastor Holmes.”

  Cynthia watched Stubby, Miss Emily, and Effie gather around her like a shield. She caught Steve’s eye and sent out a silent plea. It worked, because he just shook his head and walked away.

  “Don’t worry. This will all be sorted out.” Jonathan ran his thumb down Cynthia’s cheek. “First, we’ll get you to a hospital and have a doctor check you out. Then you’ll have to help the police find the person who did this. But don’t worry about anything. Whatever trouble you’re in, we’ll stand by you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Cynthia walked into the Beacon Mission feeling like she had been run over by a Mack Truck. She had not slept a wink. Impossible when being examined by three doctors, then having to answer a hundred questions for the police—a process made longer since she could hardly talk and had to handwrite all her answers on a small chalkboard.

  The doctors had ordered bed rest, and she planned to obey after one last thing. She glanced around the large room. A sizable crowd loitered near the long, stainless steel counter waiting for lunch—which was late. Already, several men pushed and shoved each other as though that would speed things up. Cynthia felt sorry for Miss Emily. For a crowd this size, lunch was difficult to do alone. Miss Emily’s Jesus would have to help her today, because she couldn’t.

  Cynthia tried slipping past a dozen men she recognized but they spotted her and bombarded her with well-wishes. Several gave her hugs. Everyone talked at once. They had all heard about the attempt on her life.

  Then suddenly there was Jonathan, his face a kaleidoscope of surprise, pleasure and concern. He greeted her with an unexpected hug. “What are you doing out of bed? And what are you doing here? I can’t believe the hospital released you.”

  “They discharged me with orders to go home and rest.” Cynthia’s throat still felt like she had swallowed gravel.

  “Well, then, you better.” He guided her to the hall then toward the staff bedrooms. “When you’re up to it, we’ll have to talk.”

  She gave him an anxious glance. “About what?”

  “Those weren’t empty words when I said I—we at the mission—would stand by you.” They stopped in front of a door that wasn’t hers. “Miss Emily made up the bed in here. The police still have your room roped off and the door hasn’t been fixed. Detective Bradley said you could have it back by tomorrow.” It was evident that Jonathan wanted to say more. His square jaw clenched and unclenched.

  Tell him the truth.

  She owed him that—to let him know she wasn’t in any trouble and didn’t need his help.

  “Detective Bradley seemed angry. It’s obvious he knows you. But whatever trouble you’re in, you won’t face it alone. I haven’t much money, but if you think you need a lawyer, I know someone who would lend me the funds.”

  Cynthia blinked back her surprise. “You’d . . . do that for me?”

  Jonathan nodded.

  “But why? You don’t even know me.” Cynthia felt anger well-up, felt her defenses rev into high gear like a racing car in the Indy-500. Before this was over, they were all going to be disappointed. And there was nothing she could do about it. “You have no idea who I am. Maybe if you knew, you wouldn’t like me very much,” she said in a croak and watched Jonathan flinch.

  “Don’t strain your voice. We can talk tomorrow. Just tell me now if you think I should borrow the money. If you need a lawyer, it’s best we get him sooner rather than later.”

  “No lawyer.”

  Jonathan appeared relieved.

  “But thank you, anyway.” She placed her hand on the knob and turned. Her throat felt like it was on fire. She couldn’t deal with this now—not the truth, not Jonathan’s kindness. She had to get away, by herself, and think. Even so, she had to know one thing. “You haven’t told me why. Why the offer?”

  “Because God instructed me to meet your needs. Whatever came up.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “You’re not here by accident, Cynthia. No matter what you think.”

  Something in Jonathan’s look, in his soft, green eyes that brimmed with compassion, stoked her anger even more. “You have no idea why I’m here. And when you find out, let’s see if you’re still singing the same tune.” She slammed the door behind her.

  None of Cynthia’s belongings were in the room. They were still sealed off behind the police tape. But Miss Emily had brought in a few items: a clean nightgown and robe which Cynthia recognized as Miss Emily’s, a drinking cup, a toiletry kit—the kind Miss Emily handed out each morning to those who needed them. She even included a small writing pad and Bic pen. Cynthia looked at the bed with longing. One second on it and she’d be out like a light. But first things first.

  She scribbled a note then headed for Stubby’s room and slipped it under the door. Within seconds she was back, lying down. Now all she had to do was wait.

  She closed her eyes.

  Cynthia awoke to the sound of steady tapping. She covered her head with the pillow. “Go away,” she croaked.

  “Miss Cynthia, you in there?”

  She opened her eyes. The room was dark and strange.

  “Miss Cynthia! You there?”

  She forced herself up, then flicked on the light. Her feet felt like concrete as she lumbered to the door and unlocked it.

  “I . . . was just gettin’ ready to knock again.” Stubby’s fist was raised in the air.

  She gestured with her head for him to enter and watched him tiptoe into the room as though trying not to wake a sleeper, then settle in the small recliner.

  “I got your note. It said you wanted to see me. But you shouldn’t be doin’ any talkin’. You gotta protect your voice. So we’re gonna make this quick. Okay?”

  Cynthia nodded and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Everybody’s talkin’. They ain’t figured out why someone would go after you. ‘Course I thought of Skinner right away. But he’d have used a knife.” He studied her. “You okay?”

  She took a deep breath. “Stubby . . . last night I realized I was in over my head. And I need answers.”

  Stubby scratched his head. “What answers, Miss Cynthia?”

  “I need to know two things. First, what is Skinner afraid you’re going to tell me? And then I need to hear about Turtle and Manny.” Cynthia saw fear cloud Stubby’s eyes.

  “Why you want to know, Miss Cynthia? You thinkin’ there’s some connection between this and what happened to you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, okay, then. Sure, I’ll tell you, if you think it’ll help.”

  Her throat throbbed. She shouldn’t be talking. The doctor had given her strict orders. But she had to get this out. “Before you start, there’s something I must tell you. And I hope you won’t be mad at me.”

  “You shouldn’t be strainin’ your voice, Miss Cynthia. And I could never be mad at you.”

  “Try to remember that.” She leaned over, attempting to erase the distance between them. The recliner was a fe
w feet away, too far to take Stubby’s hand and hold it like a friend bearing bad news. “I’m a reporter. I’ve been working undercover on a story involving Turtle and Manny. I wanted you to know that before you got started.”

  Grief twisted Stubby’s face, making the corner of his mouth turn down, and his forehead droop. “A reporter? You mean you ain’t one of us?”

  Cynthia shook her head.

  “A reporter,” Stubby repeated. “Then . . . then you bein’ here was just somethin’ you had to do—just a job. Then we mean nothin’ to you. We ain’t any of us a friend. And that means all I am to you is just a . . . snitch, a stoolie. Someone you had to be nice to so you’d get what you wanted.”

  “No Stubby, it’s not like that at all.”

  “I trusted you. It ain’t easy for someone like me to trust.” He looked at her with weepy eyes. “I trusted you. I thought we were friends.”

  “I never wanted to hurt you.” Every word pained her throat but she couldn’t stop now. She had to make Stubby understand. “It was just an assignment. I never expected to get involved. To come to love all of you and this mission. I’m sorry, Stubby.”

  Stubby shrugged and picked up the pad and pen and handed them to Cynthia. “Here, you’ll be needin’ this. Ain’t reporters supposed to take notes?”

  “All of you are always talking about forgiveness. Why can’t you extend some of that now, to me?” She bit her lip. If he couldn’t forgive her about this how was he ever going to forgive her about her sister? All the more she hoped he’d never find out.

  Stubby rose to his feet. “You shoulda been honest. I woulda helped you.”

  “No you wouldn’t. You street people don’t talk to anyone but your own. I tried it already and I know.” Cynthia slipped off the bed and onto her knees. “Forgive me?”

  “Now, Miss Cynthia, stop that! Get off the floor. It ain’t proper.”

  “I’m not budging, Stubby, until you say you forgive me. And I can be stubborn when I want.”

  “Just how long you plannin’ on stayin’ like that?”

  “All night if I have to.”

  “This is just plain silly.”

  Cynthia nodded and watched Stubby cover his mouth to hide a smile.

  “Come on, Miss Cynthia. Get up. Just get up. I forgive you. Okay?”

  Cynthia rose and walked to where Stubby stood, then threw her arms around him. “Thank you.”

  “Now, Miss Cynthia, you needn’t get all mushy. Stop that before I start blubberin’ like a baby.”

  “Just one more thing. Please don’t tell the others who I am. Let me tell them when I’m ready.’”

  Stubby nodded.

  Cynthia returned to the bed and sat down. “Okay. Let’s go. Tell me about your friends and what happened to them.”

  Stubby rubbed his chin. “We best begin with Manny. I met him five years ago. He was passed out in the alley next to the Angus Avenue Hotel and some kid in a red bandanna was robbin’ him. The Salamanders don’t come to Angus Avenue much. Ain’t their turf. But sometimes, one or another of ‘em tries fleecin’ the drunks in the alley. They don’t get much—pocket change—but it’s easy money, like takin’ candy from a baby.

  “Anyway this kid was cleanin’ Manny out and I happened along at a time I was sick and tired of takin’ everyone’s guff. I guess you could say I was itchin’ for a fight and I started in on the kid. Funny thing, these tough gang types ain’t so tough when they gotta fight someone alone. He cut and run before I even landed three good punches. After that, I guess I felt responsible for Manny. Don’t know why, but I stayed with him all night. Next mornin’, when he woke, I told him what happened. From then on, we made it a habit of watchin’ each other’s backs. He was a good friend. More than once, he saved me from gettin’ my lumps.”

  Cynthia had been writing on her pad and stopped. “I’m sorry, Stubby. About you losing such a good friend.”

  Stubby shrugged. “Yeah, well . . . it happens. A lot. On the street. Usually, sickness gets ‘em. Or they move on and you never see ‘em again. A friend’s a rare thing. You know?”

  Cynthia swallowed what felt like a golf ball. “I’m beginning to see that.”

  “A year after I met Manny, Turtle showed up. I can’t remember the first time I saw him, ‘cause he just sorta started showin’ up wherever we—Manny and me—were. It was like he was our shadow. Like he had adopted us or somethin’. Later, when we got to be friends, he told us how he had watched us, studied us for a long time before pickin’ us out. People called us the Three Stooges, but we didn’t care. They were just jealous ‘cause we had each other, someone we could count on. You know?”

  “Yes . . . I think I do.” Cynthia looked up from her pad. “How did Manny die?”

  “Don’t know exactly, just that he ended up in a dumpster, dead. But I can tell you why—drugs. Manny and Turtle, they got in with Jake’s crowd.” Stubby rose and began pacing. “Jake, the guy who runs the Angus Avenue Men’s Shelter, he’s a mean dude. Nobody crosses him and lives to brag on it.”

  “I met with a Jake at the Shelter, a Jake Stone. You can’t mean him?”

  “Yep. That’s the guy. Jake the Snake.”

  “He said he never heard of Manny or Turtle, and he was pretty convincing. He wasn’t that helpful, either.” Cynthia cleared her throat. “Now, I know why.”

  “Jake’s been runnin’ drugs out of the shelter for years. He’s the neighborhood supplier. Some say organized crime’s backin’ him. It could be. All I know is someone’s payin’ off the right people. He’s never been touched. Not once.”

  Cynthia put down her pen and rubbed her hands together. It felt like the strain in her throat had traveled down her entire body. She felt tired, sore and something else, too.

  Outraged.

  She had seen so many scams, written about so much abuse and corruption that the feeling surprised her. Maybe she wasn’t as hardboiled as she thought. When she picked up her pen, Stubby resumed his narrative.

  “Jake uses people like Turtle and Manny, people who got habits to support, and gets ‘em to act like mules and run drugs to the crack houses. Pays ‘em in drugs, mostly, but sometimes a little cash, too. Cops don’t normally check the bags of street people. It’s like he’s got an army of cockroaches scurryin’ all over the city for him.”

  Cynthia rubbed her throbbing forehead. “Did Jake have your friends killed?”

  “Can’t think of nobody else. One day Manny and Turtle came up with this harebrained scheme and wanted me to go in on it. But like I told you, Jake and his crowd are mean. I heard about people who crossed ‘em—the stories would curl your hair. I told ‘em no way, count me out. I tried talkin’ ‘em out of it, too.” Stubby quit pacing and sat down. “I tried.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They switched a load of crack with perp.”

  “Perp?”

  “Fake crack made of bakin’ soda and candle wax. They thought because the crack houses got so much traffic, the perp would be used up before anyone was the wiser. And they never thought it could be traced to a specific delivery. I told ‘em that was stupid thinkin’, that they were sure to get caught. I told ‘em Jake had to have a quality control system, had to mark the deliveries somehow, ‘cause that’s what I woulda done. Sure enough, I was right, ‘cause it didn’t take Jake long to figure out who pulled the switch.”

  “What did your friends do with the crack?’

  “Hid it. They said after things cooled down, they’d sell it off, little by little. They said it would keep us all in pocket change for a year. I wanted no part of it, the drugs or money, and told ‘em so. I told ‘em I didn’t want to know nothin’ about it, neither. That way, when Jake and his boys showed up, I couldn’t talk. Manny and Turtle laughed. They said come winter when my money ran out between checks and I wanted to stay in a nice warm room at the Angus Avenue Hotel, I’d be singin’ a different tune. Three days after they done it, Manny was dead. A week later, Turtle.”

&nbs
p; Cynthia began drawing stick men around the edges of the pad. “Stubby, do you think they’ll come for you, too?”

  Stubby frowned. “Manny and Turtle muled Jake’s drugs for years. I ain’t never been part of that. They know I had nothin’ to do with it. Only . . . .”

  “Only what?”

  “They think I know where their stuff is. That Manny or Turtle told me. That’s why Skinner keeps showin’ up.”

  “What happens to you if I try to expose Jake, and print this story?”

  “They’ll know I talked and come for me.”

  “Even if we can get enough evidence on Jake and send him to jail?”

  “They’ll still come. And Miss Cynthia . . . they’ll come for you, too . . . again.”

  Cynthia paced the floor and wondered what time it was. She had been walking the floor since Stubby left. It had to be late because she heard all the usual noise in the hall—Miss Emily’s gay chatter, Effie coaxing Daisy to get ready for bed, Jonathan’s heavy footsteps and cheery “good-nights,” and even Stubby’s low masculine voice, which, tonight, sounded grumpy to Cynthia’s ears.

  What was she going to do? If she believed in God, she’d ask Him. She smiled at the thought. Who else could she ask? Bernie? She knew what he’d say. Bernie always opted for the jugular. But what about Stubby? What would happen to him?

  Cynthia sat down on the bed. She was worn out from all the pacing. She propped her pillow against the wall and sank into it. She’d have to tell Bernie. She owed him that. And if he told her to go with the story, she would. But she’d speak to Steve Bradley; see what he could do about protecting Stubby, protecting the mission.

  She rested against the pillow listening for the last of the hall noise to die down. When it did she couldn’t bring herself to get up. Fear. She could taste it. Stubby’s disclosure made her realize there was much to fear. She chided herself for not wanting to unlock her door, for not wanting to go into the dark hallway and into an even darker office to call Bernie. She swallowed and the pain in her throat reminded her that her fear was justified.