Cynthia smiled. She may look like a country bumpkin in this outfit, but Angus was certainly not treating her like one. “Actually, I’d like you to help me with all three.”
“In any particular order?”
Cynthia shook her head.
“Well, let’s see. Drugs. I’m a member of the Chamber of Commerce, and the chief of police and I play golf once a month. It won’t be difficult to convince other businessmen that a drug-free North and South Oberon would be good for everyone. We could raise funds for adding private security and patrols; use our influence, unofficially of course, with the police to see that more manpower is directed in that area. Start a Clean-Up-the-City campaign. If Giuliani can clean up New York City, we should be able to cleanup Oberon. How am I doing so far?”
Cynthia grinned. “Great.”
“Okay, next one—homelessness. Now that’s a tough one. Aside from providing jobs, and building the mission and . . . .”
“The mission is yours?”
“That’s right. I built it fifteen years ago at Reverend Gates’ request. Okay, aside from the jobs, the mission, and donating free supplies through Alliance, I don’t see how I can do much more, do you?”
“Your efforts and contributions are impressive, Mr. Angus. But there is one thing more that may prove helpful—and here’s where Alliance comes into the picture. Allow Alliance delivery trucks going to the men’s shelter to be manned by an undercover cop. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll see something and . . . .”
“Now we’re talking drugs again. I thought we covered that?”
“More than a third of the homeless use drugs. You can’t discuss one without the other.”
“You have an interesting way about you, Miss Wells, similar to a tenacious predator or, dare I say it, a true reporter?”
Cynthia unlocked her ankles and settled in the chair. Her outfit was no longer an issue.
“Now, suppose I agree, which I don’t right now, but suppose I do agree to this scheme of yours, have you cleared it with the police? Are they willing to do what you suggest?”
“The investigation is over, but at your request perhaps the police will be willing to reopen the case and to utilize Alliance.”
“So, this plan is all without police approval or even knowledge?”
“Correct. It’s just the appeal of one citizen to another, for the good of our city.”
Charles Angus fingered his cigar. In the silence, Cynthia heard the desk clock tick loudly as though pacing the executive—keeping him on track. “I must excuse myself. My meeting has started. But I’ll leave you with this: Regarding the use of my trucks as an undercover vehicle, I’ll think about it. And as for your story, my gift to you is this statement, which you can quote verbatim, ‘Charles Angus declares war on drugs and homelessness in Oberon.’”
From the door of his office, Jonathan watched Willie Tanner wipe his nose on the sleeve of his dingy, blue-striped shirt, then resume pushing his mop across the hall floor. The mop dragged dirty water from one spot to another, streaking the beige linoleum and making it look more like gray marble. Willie looked surlier than Jonathan had ever seen him. The perpetual scowl was obliterated only when Willie’s greasy black hair fell across his face. This happened when Willie bent down, which Jonathan had only seen him do twice—once, when Willie grudgingly moved the yellow industrial pail for a passerby, and the other, to pick up what Jonathan thought looked like a quarter.
Jonathan felt an overwhelming urge to grab the mop from Willie, give it a good rinsing, then rewash the entire hall himself. Instead, he backed into his office and closed the door. He had seen Stubby talk to Willie earlier, had heard Stubby explain the art of using a string mop, apparently with little success. He’d have to be patient. Willie wasn’t going to change overnight. If Stubby kept at it, maybe—somewhere down the road—Willie would catch on. But not without the Lord’s help. From several of his own encounters, Jonathan knew Willie didn’t take instruction well. Didn’t like authority. Didn’t seem to want to change. Stubby must have sensed this too, because after his instructions, he disappeared and hadn’t returned.
Jonathan walked to his desk and sat down. He had a list of calls, as long as the Great Wall of China, to make. When he was finished, maybe he’d have another talk with Willie. See if he couldn’t make a few things clearer. He’d also have another talk with Stubby. It wouldn’t do to have Stubby giving up so easily.
Jonathan ran his finger down his planner and began dialing the first number but stopped when he heard a gentle tap on the door accompanied by a familiar voice.
“Jonathan?”
He slammed the receiver down on his hand. “Come in, Cynthia.” He rubbed his fingers as he suppressed a smile at seeing her outfit. She looked silly and beautiful all at once. When she pulled a chair next to his, his first reflex was to push backward and roll further away but the wheel of his chair caught on one of the desk legs and he could only move two inches. From where he sat he saw the mole, or was it a freckle, dotting the side of her right eye.
“What’s up with Willie?”
Jonathan shrugged.
“When I passed him he growled. He actually growled! He told me I was messing up his clean floor. The man needs glasses if he thinks that floor’s clean.”
“Sometimes the Lord sends someone into our lives, someone He uses as sandpaper—to smooth and polish us. It’s painful, but that’s how He removes those rough edges. I think Willie’s our sandpaper.”
Cynthia folded her arms across her chest and slid further down in her chair. “I know this is unkind, but to me, Willie symbolizes the worst of what I’ve seen in some of the homeless. He’s dirty, lacks ambition, has no work ethic, can’t relate to others and doesn’t even try, and has no apparent desire to improve himself.”
“You’re not going to hear me contradict anything you’ve said.”
“But now you’re telling me he’s sandpaper and I’ve got to like being irritated by him. I wonder if I’ll ever understand you, Jonathan.” Cynthia straightened then leaned forward. “But that’s why I like you. You’re refreshing and you’re honest. I can respect that. I don’t have to understand or agree, but I can respect it.” She slipped her hand over his. “That’s why I value your friendship—why I need a friend like you.”
Jonathan placed his other hand over hers and was surprised by how small it was, how it disappeared under his own large-knuckled paw. He hadn’t noticed that before or realized how petite she was. She always seemed to fill a room. “You have my friendship.”
“Then you’ll keep in touch when I leave?”
Jonathan felt a sinking sensation. “When are you leaving?”
“Today. I have an . . . errand . . . to do with Effie. She’s asked me not to talk about it with anyone—except Stubby, he knows—but maybe you can keep us in prayer? Okay?”
Jonathan nodded.
“Anyway, right after that, I’m leaving. Going back to North Oberon.”
“I expected as much, after Skinner’s last threat. And I’ve seen your detective friend coming and going. I was sure he’d convince you to leave. And it’s for the best. It’s too dangerous here for you.”
“I wanted to stay, to go the distance this time. For the story and myself.”
“Were you able to get what you needed? For your article, I mean?”
Cynthia shook her head. “Maybe you and I could have lunch sometime. Maybe you could give me the perspective I’m looking for.”
“I don’t think Detective Bradley would like that.” Jonathan noticed his hand was still over Cynthia’s and removed it.
“He’s just a friend, Jonathan. Nothing more. As a matter of fact, I’m not dating right now, so I don’t have to answer to anyone. Will you? Have to answer to anyone, I mean?”
Jonathan shook his head. His temples pounded. For years he had prayed for the Lord to send him a Godly wife. So how was it possible that he was so attracted . . . so utterly attracted to and actually falling in love with someone wh
o didn’t know God at all?
“Well, if you’re not dating anyone and I’m not dating anyone, then who’s to object if we have lunch from time to time?”
“No one.” Jonathan scribbled down a number on a Post-it and handed it to Cynthia. You can reach me on my cell.”
“How many other women have you given this to?” Cynthia asked, with a smile.
“Only one.” Jonathan thought he saw a flicker of disappointment cross her face. “My Aunt Adel.”
Jonathan almost fell off the chair when he saw Aunt Adel walk through the door of his office.
“Well, Dearest, I couldn’t bear another one of your refusals for dinner, so I decided to come here in person. We can eat at the mission or I can take you out. Your choice.”
Jonathan rose and gave his aunt a hug. He waited until she was settled in the nearby chair before retaking his own. Then he glanced at his desk clock. “Since when has three o’clock become your dinner hour?”
Aunt Adel giggled. “I know it’s early, but I don’t mind waiting until you’re free. I thought I’d look around. See where my nephew spends his days and nights. Then I thought I’d pay that delightful Cynthia Wells a visit. You said she was staying here, collecting information for a story.”
“I’d be happy to show you around, introduce you to my staff. But you won’t be seeing Cynthia. She left.”
“Oh . . . will she be coming back?”
“No.”
“Never?”
Jonathan saw his aunt studying him like she used to when he was a little boy and had done something wrong. “She’s finished here. Her boss wanted her to wrap things up and go home.”
“Really? That’s a shame. I mean . . . I’m sure everyone is going to miss her. You are going to miss her, aren’t you?”
Jonathan shuffled the papers on his desk. “So what’s going on in my favorite aunt’s life?”
“I’ve been busy, with the church ladies—you know, the usual thing. By the way, Gertie sends her love. She told me to tell you to be sure to invite her to the party.”
“What party?”
“The engagement party. Yours and Cynthia’s. She’s sure you’ll be getting engaged any day now.”
Jonathan felt his face flush. “Sometimes that woman is beyond ridiculous! I hope you set her straight. I hope you stopped her from spreading yet another one of her outrageous rumors.”
“How was I to know it was outrageous? You never tell me anything anymore. You’re always busy. That’s why I came. To touch base with my nephew. See what God is doing in his life.”
Aunt Adel’s sweet smile stopped Jonathan from exploding outright. Instead, he banged drawers and pushed papers from one side to another until Aunt Adel tapped on the desktop with her knuckles.
“Have I said something wrong?”
“Wrong? You don’t see anything wrong with hoping a pastor marries an unsaved woman?”
“Well of course, Dearest. Gertie understands that you can’t marry Cynthia until she comes to the Lord. And she said she was taking care of things. She and the prayer chain.”
Jonathan sighed and pushed his chair away from the desk. “It pains me to say this, Aunt Adel, but you’re sounding more like Gertie every time we talk.”
“Oh, dear, are her traits rubbing off?”
Jonathan thought he heard his aunt giggle.
“Still, give me enough credit to know there’s no way you’d ever look at someone like Cynthia. After all, she’s a reporter. And you know how they are.”
“That’s unkind.”
“What I mean is, God would never choose someone like her as a wife for you. She’s too . . . too . . . well, for one thing she smiles too much and she talks a lot. And she doesn’t seem that serious either, about serious things, like homelessness for instance. I bet it’s all about the story. Right? I bet she doesn’t even care about any of the people she’s met here. I bet they don’t mean anything to her at all.”
“That’s not true. She’s really tender hearted. Stubby told me she’s had great loss in her life—a sister died when they were both young. He wouldn’t go into details but I can see how this makes her distant at times, makes her try to protect herself from being hurt again. I think she wants to reach out and love others and have them love her back and . . . .” Jonathan stopped when he saw the smug look on his aunt’s face.
“So, when are you going to see her again?”
“She said she’d like to have lunch sometime.”
Aunt Adel reached over and tapped Jonathan’s arm. “She needs a friend, Dearest. I believe God wants you to introduce her to our Jesus, to the best friend she’ll ever have. Are you up to it?”
“I don’t know. It’s become personal. You know?”
“Yes. I saw it . . . the beginning of it anyway . . . when we were all together at the restaurant.”
“I can’t be unequally yoked, Aunt Adel. You know that. And I can’t go through the heartbreak of another Lydia. I can’t afford to fall for someone who isn’t interested in being a pastor’s wife. Someone who has little concern for the things of God. You know how long it took me to get over Lydia. I can’t . . . I won’t go through that again.”
CHAPTER 19
Cynthia walked beside Effie, holding her hand as if she were a child. She felt the quiver of Effie’s arm, heard the faltering steps of her feet. When she looked at Effie’s face, Cynthia saw a mix of anticipation and fear. She wished she knew this God Effie and Jonathan were always invoking. They’d need a protector where they were going.
She had called Bernie earlier to tell him she wouldn’t be in today, that she was still in South Oberon, and his response made her fear he was going to pop a blood vessel. She’d have plenty of fence-mending to do when she returned to work and hoped this adventure with Effie was going to be worth it.
As she walked, she formed a rushed prayer, like a voice mail, and sent it heavenward to some giant answering machine in the sky. She figured God could play it whenever He wished. There was always that chance He’d just hit the delete button without listening. But since it included Effie, maybe it gave her an edge.
As they got closer to the meeting place, Cynthia’s own arm quivered, her own footsteps faltered. She squeezed Effie’s hand and noticed she made Effie’s fingernails turn white. Effie didn’t seem to notice at all.
When Cynthia had gotten the call from Steve telling her the informant had come through, his last words of advice were, “Don’t go.” Now, she was sorry she hadn’t listened. All she knew was that they were heading for a laundromat several blocks inside the infamous South Oberon Projects. Effie said she knew the area well. It was where she grew up.
As Cynthia maneuvered the sidewalk, trying not to trip over the large cracks in the concrete, she wondered how anyone could live here. Instead of flowerpots lining the walk, empty beer bottles and crumpled newspapers formed random clusters. Overturned garbage cans created barriers; and bicycle parts and radios, tires and even broken-down furniture produced odd-looking collages against the sides of buildings.
But it was the graffiti that caught Cynthia’s attention. It was everywhere: on signs, doors, buildings, garbage cans. Some of it Cynthia found beautiful—pictures of two children playing under a tree, an eagle in flight, a flower garden behind a white picket fence. But most of it was ugly and violent—scenes of murder and abuse. It was on these canvases of hate and frustration that Cynthia saw drawings of salamanders—a warning, no doubt, of who’s territory this was and the consequences of trespassing.
She half expected to see totems or tribal markers rising from the abandoned lots as boundary definers. Instead, she saw silhouettes darting among the shadows. “We’re being followed.”
“Just keep movin’. The laundromat’s only another block.”
“What do they want?”
“They’re checkin’ to see who’s comin’ into their neighborhood. If they think we’re from a rival gang, they’ll sound the alarm.”
Cynthia laughed in spite
of herself. “They wouldn’t mistake us for members of a gang. We’re practically middle aged!”
“Round here, you can’t tell a woman’s age just by lookin’. When I was growin’ up, I knew sixteen year olds with two or three babies that looked older than you.”
Cynthia glanced back at the silhouettes. “Let’s make sure we’re out of here before dark.”
Effie nodded, and the two continued in silence. When they spotted the laundromat, Effie broke free and started jogging. Cynthia followed with her own sprint and when she caught up she grabbed Effie’s arm and pulled her to a stop.
“Think about what you’re doing. You can’t go rushing in like a mama bear. They are expecting a reporter. We have to go in together. So take a deep breath and calm down.”
Effie closed her eyes and nodded. “Okay . . . we do it your way. But first, you gotta let me pray.”
“Effie, this is not the time or place . . . .”
Effie opened her eyes. “I ain’t lettin’ you go in there without prayer cover. You gotta have your wits, think fast on your feet. I ain’t takin’ no chances you’ll mess up. No offense, Cynthia, but my boy’s future’s at stake. Maybe even his life. And you ain’t got what it takes to pull this off, not without the Lord.” She grabbed Cynthia’s hand and began praying. She spoke as though talking to a friend. She asked God to give Cynthia courage and wisdom. Then she asked what Cynthia considered a strange request—she asked God to put His own thoughts and words into Cynthia, and to guide and direct all the upcoming conversations and events, to use Cynthia for His purpose.
Strange how Cynthia never considered herself useable by God. Stranger still, that someone else did. As Cynthia looked into Effie’s dark, anxious eyes, she realized Effie wasn’t trusting her at all. Rather, it was God she was trusting.
Please God, for Effie’s sake, don’t let me mess this up.
Inside, a large, buxom woman in jeans and a V-neck T-shirt stopped folding clothes when Cynthia and Effie entered. Even from where Cynthia stood, the salamander tattoo scrolled across the top of the woman’s breasts was unmistakable.
Mercy at Midnight Page 30
