But trusting God seemed easier now. He had seen Jesus. And ever since he woke up from what doctors called a coma, Stubby had felt the Presence. It warmed him. It held him. It filled him with joy. It made it easy to forgive Cynthia when she told him who she was and what she had done. Even now, the Presence was strong enough for Stubby to feel without any effort at all. He wondered how long before the filth of the world would spoil it—how long before he’d lose it altogether.
At times, he still hated being here. Hated the idea that he had been pulled away from his beautiful Jesus. But Jesus said he had to come back, so here he was. And to Stubby’s way of thinking, there was nothing left for him to do but live all out for the Master. Only he wasn’t the old Stubby anymore, little and worm-like. A big God loved him and that made Stubby big. Maybe he’d write a poem about it—a praise poem—when he got the chance.
Stubby pulled a clean pullover from his drawer. Cynthia had brought him fresh clothes when she picked him up, but they had absorbed that nasty hospital smell. Even his skin, his hair smelled like the hospital. He stripped off his shirt and pants, and redressed.
It was good of Cynthia to come. He had planned on taking a cab. But there she was, without being asked. Cynthia. He smiled when he thought of her. He loved her like he imagined he would a daughter if he had one. He could never hate her no matter what she did. He pictured her spinning on a wheel, a clay pot being molded and pressed into shape. But the enemy would try to mess things up; keep her feeling guilty over her past and maybe even use Skinner or someone else to hurt her. He’d have to watch, keep a good lookout, just like Jesus told him to. Cynthia was his responsibility now, and he didn’t mind a bit. Only . . . he didn’t want to lose the Presence. Not yet.
“Stubby?” There was a loud rap at the door. “Can I come in?”
He tried to ignore it. It seemed to make the Presence fade, seemed to pull him further into the mud of the earth.
“Stubby! You in there?”
He hesitated, then shuffled to the door and opened it. Jonathan’s kind, concerned face made Stubby smile in spite of himself. This must be where God wanted him, now.
“Stubby, are you okay?”
Stubby nodded and gestured for Jonathan to come in. “I’m fine, Pastor Jonathan. Just sorta in a fog, I guess. But I’m comin’ around.”
“Well, it’s good to have you back.” Jonathan gave Stubby a hearty hug, then a pat on the back. “We missed you around here.”
“That’s nice of you to say.” Stubby glanced shyly at his dirty sneakers. The leather was scuffed and cracked around the toes, and imbedded grime outlined the stitching. Laces, once white, now gray and frayed, hung loosely. Dirty shoes from walking in a dirty world.
“Anyway . . . I wanted to welcome you back. That and to ask a favor, but only if you’re up to it. While you were in the hospital, Willie Tanner helped us out.”
“Yeah, I was glad to hear you got someone. This place is too big for you to run alone. But I ain’t never heard of this Tanner. Least I don’t think so—the name don’t ring any bells.” Stubby noticed that Jonathan looked troubled. “Hope he kept the place ship-shape the way you like it.”
“I hate to say it, but he didn’t do well. He’s got problems and needs someone to show him how things should be done. And that’s what I wanted to ask—if you’re feeling up to it, that is. I want you to take him under your wing. Train him, as an assistant. God knows there’s plenty of work for two. He doesn’t have your skills, though. Sometimes he oversleeps and starts late. Sometimes he doesn’t show up at all. Sometimes he’ll start a job and not finish it. But you can whip him into shape, teach him what to do. It may be a challenge, but you’ll be doing him a favor and helping the mission as well. What do you say?”
Stubby scratched his head. “Is that all? You had me worried, with your face so troubled-lookin’. ‘Course I’ll do it. You were there when I needed a helpin’ hand. I’d like to be there when someone else needs one. Might as well be this Willie Tanner.”
Jonathan sighed. “I can’t tell you how good it is to have you back. I have to admit, it’s been somewhat of a strain around here without you.”
“Now you gotta quit braggin’ on me like that or I might get a swelled up head.” Stubby glanced at his sneakers again. “Then I might ask for a raise and that ain’t gonna make you happy. You let me see what I can do with Tanner. One thing I know—if God can change someone like me, He can change anybody.”
“Stubby’s back!” Cynthia said, bouncing into Day Care just in time to see Effie drying her eyes. Before Cynthia could ask what was wrong, Daisy ran up and gave her a hug.
“Read story!” Daisy said, pushing a book, with a large, red dog on the cover, into Cynthia’s hand.
Cynthia planted a kiss on the child’s forehead, then stole a worried glance at Effie. “Okay, but let me talk to your mother first.”
“Mommy’s sick. We gotta play by ourselves.” Daisy put a finger to her lips. “We gotta be quiet.”
By now, Effie had finished blotting her eyes and shooed Daisy away. “Go look at them pictures and if you don’t pester Cynthia and me, maybe she’ll come over and read to you.”
Cynthia watched Daisy skip away. “She’s not the same little girl. She’s becoming quite a chatterbox. She’s even smiling!”
“Yes, praise be to God. Everyday, she’s gettin’ better.”
Cynthia turned back to Effie and noticed the deep circles, the sunken eyes.
“I haven’t been sleepin’ so good,” Effie said, as if apologizing for her appearance.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s my boy, Jeff.” Effie pulled a tissue from her pocket and twisted it in her hands. “He got in a knife fight with someone in a rival gang. Cut the other guy pretty good. Now, the cops are lookin’ for him.” Effie swiped her eyes with the tissue. “Cynthia, I just gotta find him, talk some sense into him before it’s too late. If he’s with them Salamanders much longer he’s gonna go to reform school for sure. Then what? Prison?” Effie broke down and wept. “I been prayin’ and prayin’. I don’t know what else to do. I’m at my wits end. And time’s runnin’ out. I just know it. I gotta do somethin’ quick.”
Cynthia saw that the children were beginning to look frightened so she smiled and waved at them, then turned Effie and herself so they faced the wall. “Calm down. Just take a deep breath and calm down.”
Instead of calming down, Effie grabbed Cynthia and shook her. “You gotta help me. You promised, remember? You promised you’d help find my boy.”
“I said I’d try. But I’m not sure there’s anything I can do.”
“You’re a reporter. I always knew there was somethin’ different about you the minute I laid eyes on you. You got education and you been to more of the world than South Oberon. I met educated before, even eaten out of the same garbage pail with ‘em. But I knew you was different. You know how to get things done. You got sources. You can ask questions. People will talk to you. People always talk to reporters.”
“I can try. That’s all I can do. I can’t make any promises. But I’ll try. Okay?” What could she say? What words were adequate enough to soothe the heartache of a lifetime of poverty and struggle, disappointment and pain? As she put her arms around Effie, felt her heartbreak, Cynthia understood why she had cultivated so few friendships. And for a fleeting moment, she wished it were still so.
Cynthia watched Steve Bradley nibble on the bologna sandwich she had made him. Other than the crumbs he was leaving all over the counter, the kitchen was spotless . . . and quiet. Miss Emily had discreetly disappeared when Steve arrived. From time to time, a man’s voice or muffled laughter floated from the main room and through the double doors of the kitchen. Cynthia could tell by the low volume that most of the residents had gone to their rooms. She poured hot coffee into two empty mugs and handed one to Steve.
“No sign of Skinner. We’ve got an APB out but we’re not holding our breath. Too many places to hide around here. Places
even the police won’t search.” Steve sipped his coffee and frowned. “Should I bother saying, ‘I told you so’?”
Cynthia shook her head. “You warned me. I didn’t listen. You were right. I was wrong. Simple as that.”
“It’s not about being right or wrong. It’s about being stupid.”
“If you think you’re going to get me to admit I was stupid, then you’ve got another think coming. Let’s just say I’m learning . . . the hard way.”
Steve placed his cup on the counter, accidently knocking it against the sandwich plate. “How long do you intend staying here?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow. Bernie’s pulled the plug. Ordered me out. So I’m stuck writing an un-writeable story.”
“If that’s so, why wait? Why not leave tonight? I could drive you home. Maybe stay at your place, give you a little police protection.” He tried moving closer to Cynthia but she stopped him.
“What I need right now is not protection, but information. I need to find someone. How would I go about that?”
“Depends on who it is.”
“A Salamander.” Cynthia watched as a disapproving look crawled over Steve’s face.
“Forget it. Most of them don’t want to be found. And they’re a nasty bunch. Imagine a whole gang of Skinners running around with knives and you’ll get an idea of what they’re like.”
The analogy made Cynthia shudder. “But . . . if someone had to find one of them, how would he go about it?
“Is this for your story?”
Cynthia shook her head.
“For what then?”
“For a mother who’s sick with worry about her son.”
“I swear, Cynthia, you’re losing your edge. Where’s that famous Wells instinct? Are you going to make me call you stupid all over again?”
Cynthia picked up his cup and poured out the remaining coffee, then put it into the sink.
“Hey! I wasn’t finished!”
“Yes you were. Good night, Steve.”
“Now, wait a second. I know I was insulting, but it’s because I want you to think. Okay? Think about what you’re doing, Cynthia. Will you do that?”
“Good night, Steve.”
“You haven’t even given me a chance to tell you the reason I’m here.” He pulled a paper from his jacket pocket. “The list you asked me to check out—you know, the food stores and other vendors. Well, I did and nothing, nada, zilch. They’re all legitimate businesses. No red flags, nothing amiss.”
Cynthia took the paper from Steve’s hand and stared at it. “What’s this asterisk next to Alliance Bakery Supplies?”
“It’s nothing. I only marked it because I was surprised and wanted to check it further.”
“Why? I thought you said there were no red flags.”
“There weren’t. When we looked into Alliance Bakery we found it was owned by Charles Angus, or rather it’s a wholly owned subsidiary of Angus Enterprises. Nothing wrong with it. Like I said, it just surprised me because I thought Angus was into computers and software now.”
“What exactly is Alliance Bakery?”
“A wholesaler that supplies local bakeries, as well as the men’s shelter, with flour, sugar, that sort of thing. Come to think of it, I even saw Beacon Mission on their list.”
Cynthia paced the kitchen, glancing, from time to time, at the paper in her hand. “Doesn’t Angus own the glass factory?”
“Yeah, and Nationwide Distributors. But he keeps these open to help employ the Skid Row crowd. A sort of civic duty thing.”
Cynthia wadded up the list and threw it into the garbage. “You’re right, Steve, there’s nothing here. It all seems hopeless. If we could just catch a break, get a real lead. Anyway, thanks for trying. I appreciate it.”
“Sure . . . anytime. I could also try to help, with that other matter, if you really want me to. You know, finding that Salamander, that kid for his mother.”
Cynthia gave Steve’s hand a squeeze. “Well, aren’t you a dear?” Then she pulled a clean cup from the cabinet and poured fresh coffee into it. She handed the steaming cup to Steve and smiled. “What’s the plan?”
“There’s this informant who knows the area. It’s going to cost you. I don’t know how much, yet. I’ll shell out the money, but you’ll have to reimburse me since it’s not police business and I can’t very well charge it to the department.”
“Sure, I’m good for it. You know that. Just see if you can get your snitch on it right away. The boy’s name is Jeff Watson. Now, tell me the plan.”
“It’s simple. You’re going to pay an informant to set up a meeting with Jeff.”
“What am I going to pay this informant to say? That Jeff’s mother wants to see him?”
“No, we’re going to tell him that a reporter wants to write a story on gang life and will make it worth his while to do an interview.”
“More cash?”
“Yes. This isn’t going to be cheap.”
“Okay, so I don’t go to Bermuda this year. What reason does the informant give for me signaling Jeff out?”
Steve scratched his head. “I can’t do all the thinking. Help me out here.”
“I don’t know much about him. Effie . . . that’s Jeff’s mother . . . told me Jeff is new to the gang and that he just had a knife fight. Maybe I could say I wanted to get the slant on gang life from a new member, and that I heard about him on the street, heard about his recent fight.”
“That could scare him off. Make him think it’s a trap. Especially if the police are looking for him.”
“They are.” Cynthia ignored the irritated look on Steve’s face.
“On the other hand, it may appeal to his machismo, his masculinity. Anyway, if Jeff has a need to prove himself, a need to have his ego stroked, he may show. Fifty-fifty. That’s the odds I’d give.”
“All right. Set it up. For tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I know a little about human nature, too. If I give him a narrow window and make him think I’ll go elsewhere for the interview, it might tip the odds in my favor.”
“Speaking of odds. You want to tell me the chance of us getting back together?”
“Zero-zero.”
Cynthia sat with her ankles crossed, studying the dark paneled room. Her shiny, blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she swiped it, self-consciously. When she did interviews, she always dressed the part, but this morning all she could find in the storeroom, where Miss Emily kept the donated clothes, was a sleeveless blue jumper and white cotton, short sleeve tank top. She put the two together to create the ensemble she now wore. It obviously didn’t serve her well because the secretary, after giving her the once over, refused to believe Cynthia actually had an appointment.
She should have gone home and gotten decent clothes. But it was only after Steve left that Cynthia had come up with the idea of interviewing Charles Angus for a possible ending to her un-writable story, and it was far too late then to head home. And when she called the Angus headquarters this morning and was allowed to speak with the man himself, he had agreed to an interview if she could get to his office by nine. He promised to give her fifteen minutes.
Now, looking at the Picasso hanging on the wall behind the desk, Cynthia felt embarrassed. She’d have to get over it or it would hamper the interview. Clothes don’t make the man . . . or woman, Wells. She twirled her hair around her finger. But people do judge a book by its cover.
When the door opened behind her, Cynthia smelled cigar smoke. She turned and saw a large, imposing man enter, holding what looked like a knockwurst in his hand. He brought it to his lips, making the tip glow.
She rose, out of respect or awe . . . she couldn’t tell which . . . and extended her hand. She saw an amused look on his face as he glanced at her outfit. Don’t apologize, Wells. Don’t you dare apologize. “Forgive my appearance, but it was rather short notice and I didn’t have a chance to change.” She bit the inside of her lip as she watched Charles Angus smirk,
then descend onto his chair as if it were a throne.
“I must confess I was taken back by your call, and curious. You said you wanted to discuss Alliance Bakery Supplies and what was going on in Skid Row. Of course you didn’t mention what exactly was going on there or the relationship to Alliance.”
“I’ve been working on a drug story involving Skid Row.” Cynthia almost gagged on the cloud of cigar smoke that streamed from Charles Angus’ mouth like one of the chimneys at his glass factory. Unconsciously, she fanned the air with her hand. “Anyway, I’ve had to table the story because of lack of evidence. But it seems that homeless men are being recruited to run drugs in and out of Skid Row.”
Charles Angus rested his cigar on the long, marble ashtray and leaned his elbows on the desk. “Interesting and unfortunate, but I still don’t see the connection.”
Cynthia watched as he placed the fingertips of one hand to the corresponding tips of the other hand and bounced them together.
“What exactly do you want from me, Miss Wells?”
“Everyone knows how civic-minded you are. I was hoping you could use your influence and resources to put a stop to this kind of thing, to help clean up Skid Row.”
“I’ve been trying to do that for years, in one way or another. I operate my glass factory and distribution house at a loss. A lot of those people have no trade, no skills. What else could they do if I were to close down these enterprises?” Charles Angus stopped bouncing his fingers and smiled. “Of course I prefer you didn’t print that part. I’d hate my competitors to learn I operate anything at a loss.”
“You can count on me leaving that part out. I don’t think anyone would believe me, anyway. But I’d like to end my story more hopeful than it currently is, and since I can’t deliver what I had planned, I’d like to at least deliver a promise from one of Oberon’s most prominent citizens, a promise that our city will do all it can to clean up this problem.”
“Which problem is that, Miss Wells? The drugs or the homelessness? Or . . . the problem of ending your story?”
Mercy at Midnight Page 29
